aristocrats of Van Dyck and Rubens and Gainsborough and his contemporaries – a charmingly mixed company, separated by centuries and frontiers, yet all characterised by a common something– some inexplicable similarity which Barres recognised without defining.
“It’s rather amusing,” he murmured, “but that kid, Dulcie, seems to remind me of these people – somehow or other… One scarcely looks for qualities in the child of an Irish janitor… I wonder who her mother was…”
When he looked up again Dulcie was standing there on the thick rug. On her naked feet were jade bracelets, jade-set rings on her little toes; a cascade of jade and gold falling over her breasts to the straight, narrow breadth of peacock hue which fell to her ankles. And on her childish head, clasping the ruddy bobbed hair, glittered the jade-incrusted diadem of a fairy princess of Cathay.
The Prophet, gathered close to her breast, stared 101 back at Barres with eyes that dimmed the splendid jade about him.
“That settles it,” he said, the tint of excitement rising in his cheeks. “I have discovered a model and a wonder! And right here is where I paint my winter Academy – right here and right now!.. And I call it ‘The Prophets.’ Climb up on that model stand and squat there cross-legged, and stare at me – straight at me – the way your cat stares!.. There you are. That’s right! Don’t move. Stay put or I’ll come over and bow-string you! – you little miracle!”
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