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Gombauld had only half smoked his cigarette； in any case he wouldn't
begin work again till he had finished。 He would give her the five
minutes that separated him from the bitter end。 〃This is the best place to
see it from；〃 he said。
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Mary looked at the picture for some time without saying anything。
Indeed； she didn't know what to say； she was taken aback； she was at a
loss。 She had expected a cubist masterpiece； and here was a picture of a
man and a horse； not only recognisable as such； but even aggressively in
drawing。 Trompe…l'oeilthere was no other word to describe the
delineation of that foreshortened figure under the trampling feet of the
horse。 What was she to think； what was she to say？ Her orientations
were gone。 One could admire representationalism in the Old Masters。
Obviously。 But in a modern。。。？ At eighteen she might have done so。
But now； after five years of schooling among the best judges； her
instinctive reaction to a contemporary piece of representation was
contemptan outburst of laughing disparagement。 What could
Gombauld be up to？ She had felt so safe in admiring his work before。
But nowshe didn't know what to think。 It was very difficult； very
difficult。
〃There's rather a lot of chiaroscuro； isn't there？〃 she ventured at last；
and inwardly congratulated herself on having found a critical formula so
gentle and at the same time so penetrating。
〃There is；〃 Gombauld agreed。
Mary was pleased； he accepted her criticism； it was a serious
discussion。 She put her head on one side and screwed up her eyes。 〃I
think it's awfully fine；〃 she said。 〃But of course it's a little
too。。。too。。。trompe…l'oeil for my taste。〃 She looked at Gombauld； who
made no response； but continued to smoke； gazing meditatively all the
time at his picture。 Mary went on gaspingly。 〃When I was in Paris this
spring I saw a lot of Tschuplitski。 I admire his work so tremendously。
Of course； it's frightfully abstract nowfrightfully abstract and frightfully
intellectual。 He just throws a few oblongs on to his canvasquite flat；
you know； and painted in pure primary colours。 But his design is
wonderful。 He's getting more and more abstract every day。 He'd given
up the third dimension when I was there and was just thinking of giving up
the second。 Soon； he says； there'll be just the blank canvas。 That's the
logical conclusion。 Complete abstraction。 Painting's finished； he's
finishing it。 When he's reached pure abstraction he's going to take up
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architecture。 He says it's more intellectual than painting。 Do you
agree？〃 she asked； with a final gasp。
Gombauld dropped his cigarette end and trod on it。 〃Tschuplitski's
finished painting；〃 he said。 〃I've finished my cigarette。 But I'm going
on painting。〃 And； advancing towards her； he put his arm round her
shoulders and turned her round； away from the picture。
Mary looked up at him； her hair swung back； a soundless bell of gold。
Her eyes were serene； she smiled。 So the moment had come。 His arm
was round her。 He moved slowly； almost imperceptibly； and she moved
with him。 It was a peripatetic embracement。 〃Do you agree with him？〃
she repeated。 The moment might have come； but she would not cease to
be intellectual； serious。
〃I don't know。 I shall have to think about it。〃 Gombauld loosened
his embrace； his hand dropped from her shoulder。 〃Be careful going
down the ladder；〃 he added solicitously。
Mary looked round； startled。 They were in front of the open door。
She remained standing there for a moment in bewilderment。 The hand that
had rested on her shoulder made itself felt lower down her back； it
administered three or four kindly little smacks。 Replying automatically
to its stimulus； she moved forward。
〃Be careful going down the ladder；〃 said Gombauld once more。
She was careful。 The door closed behind her and she was alone in
the little green close。 She walked slowly back through the farmyard； she
was pensive。
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CHAPTER XIII。
Henry Wimbush brought down with him to dinner a budget of printed
sheets loosely bound together in a cardboard portfolio。
〃To…day；〃 he said； exhibiting it with a certain solemnity； 〃to… day I
have finished the printing of my 'History of Crome'。 I helped to set up
the type of the last page this evening。〃
〃The famous History？〃 cried Anne。 The writing and the printing of
this Magnum Opus had been going on as long as she could remember。
All her childhood long Uncle Henry's History had been a vague and
fabulous thing； often heard of and never seen。
〃It has taken me nearly thirty years；〃 said Mr。 Wimbush。 〃Twenty…five
years of writing and nearly four of printing。 And now it's finishedthe
whole chronicle； from Sir Ferdinando Lapith's birth to the death of my
father William Wimbushmore than three centuries and a half： a history
of Crome； written at Crome； and printed at Crome by my own press。〃
〃Shall we be allowed to read it now it's finished？〃 asked Denis。
Mr。 Wimbush nodded。 〃Certainly；〃 he said。 〃And I hope you will
not find it uninteresting；〃 he added modestly。 〃Our muniment room is
particularly rich in ancient records； and I have some genuinely new light
to throw on the introduction of the three… pronged fork。〃
〃And the people？〃 asked Gombauld。 〃Sir Ferdinando and the rest of
themwere they amusing？ Were there any crimes or tragedies in the
family？〃
〃Let me see；〃 Henry Wimbush rubbed his chin tho