of the picture was still on him. I think that you will be a great artist one day. She faltered, taken completely off balance by the compliment and its obvious sincerity, and her eyes slipped away to the picture. All the antagonism, all the haughtiness drained from her.
Suddenly she was just a very young girl in a baggy smock, smeared and daubed with oil paint, and with a wash of pleased and modest colour spreading over her cheeks.
He had never seen her like this, so artless, so open and vulnerable. It was as though for a moment she had unveiled the secret compartments of her soul to allow him to see where she kept her real treasures. Thank you, Mark, she said softly, and she was no longer the glittering butterfly, the spoiled flighty little rich girl, but a creature of substance and warmth.
The rush of his own feelings must have been as obvious he had almost suc combed to the desire he felt to take her in his arms and hold her hard, for she stepped back a pace, looking flustered and uncertain of herself, as though she had read his intention. And yet you won't slide out of it that easily. The curtains were drawn hastily across the secret places, and the old familiar ring was in her voice. This is my private place, even my father wouldn't dare come in here, without my permission first obtained. The change was extraordinary. It was like a superb actress slipping into a familiar role, she even stamped her foot, a gesture that he found suddenly insupportable.
it won't happen again, he assured her brusquely, and he stepped to the doorway, passing her closely. He was so angry he felt himself trembling. Mark! She stopped him imperiously, but it was with an effort he forced himself to turn back; his whole body felt rigid, and his lips were numb and stiff with anger. My father asks permission to come in here, she told him, and then she smiled, a slightly tremulous but utterly enchanting thing. Couldn't you just do the same? She had him off balance, his anger not fully aroused before she assuaged it with that smile, he felt the rigidity melting out of his body, but she had turned to the bench and was clattering her pots busily and she spoke without looking up. Close the door as you leave, she instructed, a princess tossing an order to a serf. His anger, not yet fully assuaged, flared again brightly and he strode to the door with his heels clashing on the bare boards and he was about to slam it with all of his strength, and hope that it smashed off its hinges, when she stopped him again.
, mark!
He stopped, but could not bring himself to answer. I will be coming down to Parliament with you this afternoon. We will leave directly after lunch, I want to hear General Smuts speech, my father says it will be important. He thought that if he tried to answer her, his lips might tear, they felt as stiff and brittle as parchment. Oh dear, she murmured. I had completely forgotten when addressing Mark Anders Esquire, one must always say please! She crossed her hands demurely in front of her, hung her head in a caricature of contrition and made those dark blue eyes huge and soulful. Please may I ride to Parliament with you today? I would be ever so grateful, I really would. And now you can slam the door. You should be on the stage, you're wasted as a painter, he told her, but he closed the door with studied deliberation and she waited to hear the latch click before she dropped into the model's chair, and began to shake with laughter, hugging herself delightedly.
Gradually the laughter dried up, but she was still smiling as she selected a blank canvas from the stock and placed it on the easel.
Working with charcoal, she blocked in the shape of his head, and it was right at the first attempt. The eyes, she whispered, his eyes are the key. And she smiled again as they appeared miraculously out of the blank canvas, surprised that she had them fixed perfectly in her mind. She began to hum softly as she worked, completely absorbed.
The Assembly Chamber of Parliament House was a high square hall, tiered with the galleries for Press and visitors.
It was panelled in dark carved indigenous wood, and the canopy above the Speaker's chair was ornately worked in the same wood.
Softly muted green carpeting set off the richer green leather of the members benches, and every seat was filled, the galleries crowded, but the silence that gripped that concourse was of extraordinary intensity, a cathedral hush into which the high piping voice of the Prime Minister carried clearly. He made a slight but graceful figure as he stood in his seat below the Speaker's dais. The entire Witwatersrand complex is passing slowly into the hands of the red commandos, He used his hands expressively, and Mark leaned forward to obtain a better view. The movement brought his outer leg against Storm Courtney's, and he was aware of the warmth of her thigh against his during the rest of the speech. Three members of the police have been killed in a brutal attack at Fordsburg, and two others have been critically injured in clashes with strikers commandos. These groups are armed with modern pattern military firearms, and they are marching freely through the istreets in quasi-military formations, committing acts of outrage on innocent members of the public, on public officers going about their duties, on all who cross their paths. They have interfered with public services, transport, power and communication, and have attacked and occupied police stations. Sean Courtney, who had been slumped in his front bench seat with one hand covering his eyes, lifted his head and said Shame! in a sonorous voice; it was his third-whisky voice, and Mark could not help but grin as he guessed that the club lunch had fortified him for the session. Shame indeed, Smuts agreed. Now the strikers have gathered about them all the feckless and dissolute elements in the community, their mood has become ugly and threatening. Legitimate strike action has given way to a reign of terror and criminal violence. Yet the most disturbing aspect of this terrible business is that the management of this labour dispute, or should I say, the stagemanaging of the strike - has passed into the hands of the most reckless and lawless men, and these men seek nothing less than the overthrow of civilized government, and a rule of Bolshevik anarchy. Never! boomed Sean, and the cry was taken up across the assembly. This house, and the whole nation is faced by the prospect of bloodshed and violence on a scale which none of us expected or believed possible.
The silence was unbroken now as Smuts went on carefully. If any blame attaches to this Government, it is that we have been too patient and shown too much forbearance for the miners grievances, we have allowed them too much latitude, too much expression of their demands. This was because we have always been aware of the temper of the nation, and the rights of individuals and groups to free expression. Quite right too, Sean agreed, and, Hear! Hear!
answered, Haar! HoorVacross the floor. Now however, we have been forced to reckon the cost of further forbearance, and we have found it unacceptable. He paused and bowed his head for a moment, and when he lifted it again, his expression was bleak and cold. Therefore a state of martial law now exists throughout the Union of South Africa. The silence persisted for many seconds, and then a roar of comment and question and interjection filled the house.
Even the galleries buzzed with confusion and speculation, and the Press reporters jostled and fought each other at the exit doors in the race to reach a telephone.
Martial law was the weapon of last resort, and had only been used once before, during the 1916 rebellion, when De Wet had raised his commandos again and ridden against Botha and Smuts. Now there were cries of protest and anger from the Opposition benches, Hertzog shaking his fist and his pince-nez glinting, while the government members were also on their feet voicing their support. The Speaker's vain cries of Order! Order! were almost drowned in the uproar.
