I had been slightly tickled
at the gentleness which Mrs. Strickland put into her mention
of her husband's name, and while the pair conversed I took
stock of the room in which we sat. Mrs. Strickland had moved
with the times. Gone were the Morris papers and gone the
severe cretonnes, gone were the Arundel prints that had
adorned the walls of her drawingroom in Ashley Gardens; the
room blazed with fantastic colour, and I wondered if she knew
that those varied hues, which fashion had imposed upon her,
were due to the dreams of a poor painter in a South Sea
island. She gave me the answer herself.
"What wonderful cushions you have," said Mr. Van Busche Taylor.
"Do you like them?" she said, smiling. "Bakst, you know."
And yet on the walls were coloured reproductions of several of
Strickland's best pictures, due to the enterprise of a
publisher in Berlin.
"You're looking at my pictures," she said, following my eyes.
"Of course, the originals are out of my reach, but it's a
comfort to have these. The publisher sent them to me himself.
They're a great consolation to me."
"They must be very pleasant to live with," said Mr.
Pages:
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357