The Merciless Ladies Read Online Free PDF

would fit him out, and he was never in a hurry for his money when someone came in with the right introduction. As for his hair, Brown of Bond Street was an artist in his own way too and would wreak an interesting change.
    He did. They did. They all did. When at the beginning of the following year to my delight I was offered a job – though at no higher wages – in the London office of the then Manchester Guardian , and went to see him after the interview I was astonished, aghast at the change.
    Presumably it was Mr Brown of Bond Street who had divined the trouble with his hair. He now wore it long – or long for those days – and it had ceased to stand up like an aggressive brush at the front, but curled away from his forehead in a good glossy mane. He hadn’t adopted ‘arty clothes’, but wore well-cut, heavy tweeds with a suggestion of flair. Most surprising was his voice, from which most of the flat vowels had disappeared. No doubt Mr Shaw’s Professor Higgins would have been able to tell not only that Stafford came from Lancashire, but exactly what part. For normal people that didn’t apply. For normal people he had a new voice.
    I remember at the time being not only aghast but disappointed. For eight years our friendship had run very true, wirhout flaw. I thought highly of his talents and believed he would become famous. This pandering to snobbery lowered him. I didn’t say so but commented simply that he had taken Mrs Marnsett’s advice to heart.
    He said sharply: ‘Of course I have, because it’s the soundest I’ve ever been offered. I have a supreme contempt for people who judge by such things, but since ninety per cent of the people I shall be mixing with think that way, it’s common sense to do it. If I can’t change them I can at least change myself.’
    â€˜Which means’, I said, ‘that you have a supreme contempt for ninety per cent of the people you mix with.’
    â€˜Well, eighty-nine’, he said, with a gleam in his eye.
    By now gossip was linking his name with Diana Marnsett in a way that went beyond friendly advice.
    I noticed that be didn’t renew his suggestion that we should share a flat. He was somehow contriving to live a smart life – into which I perhaps would no longer easily fit – and yet was painting six and seven hours a day. The occasional commission came his way. A young woman who didn’t like him implied that Mrs Marnsett was supporting him, but I felt I knew him better than that.
    One day we had lunch together and Paul told me he had just had a brush with Henri Becker. What about? I asked in surprise.
    â€˜I showed him my three entries for this year’s Academy. He doesn’t like them.’
    â€˜He liked his own portrait, didn’t he?’
    â€˜Oh, yes. But after seeing this later stuff he referred me to the Bible and its statement that you cannot serve both God and Mammon.’
    I waited, expecting more.
    â€˜He says I’m talented enough to know the difference between gold and gilt. He says these paintings are too facile. That I’m not a great portraitist anyhow, that I have other fields to plough. That portraiture comes easiest to me and that, having now done little else for two years, I should drop it and concentrate on other things. He didn’t actually bring up the question of my birthright and a mess of pottage, but I was afraid any moment he might.’
    â€˜Well …’ I said. ‘What’s your view on that?’
    â€˜I think probably he’s right – though I don’t see it in such black and white terms.’
    â€˜And what are you going to do about it?’
    Paul’s long lashes veiled the expression in his eyes. Certainly the new grooming had improved his looks.
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Nothing?’
    â€˜Nothing. I’ve told you long ago, Bill, where I’m going. So far I haven’t let anything stand in my