“I’m sorry,” said Alleyn steadily. “I’m afraid I was looking at the green smudge on your cheek.”
She scrubbed at her face with the cuff of her smock.
“I’ll go down,” she said, and picked up the sketch.
He stood aside, but she had to pass close to him, and again he was vividly aware of her, still with the same odd sense of surprised familiarity. She smelt of turpentine and paint, he noticed.
“Well — good evening,” she said vaguely.
Alleyn laughed a little.
“Good evening, madam.”
She started off down the ladder, moving sideways and holding the wet sketch out over the hand-rail. He, turned away and lit a cigarette. Suddenly a terrific rumpus broke out on the deck below. The hot cheap reek of frangipanni blossoms drifted up, and with it the voice of the success of the ship.
“Oh, pardon me. Come right down. Gangway, fellows. Oh say, pardon me, but have you been making a picture? Can I have a peek? I’m just crazy about sketching. Look, boys — isn’t that cute? The wharf! My, my, it’s a shame you haven’t been able to finish it, isn’t it? It would have been swell! Look, boys, it’s the wharf. Maybe a snapshot would help. We’ll surely have to watch our step with an artist on board. Say, let’s get acquainted. We’ve been celebrating and we feel fine. Meet the mob. I’m Virginia Van Maes.”
“My name’s Troy,” said a voice that Alleyn could scarcely recognise. A series of elaborate introductions followed.
“Well, Miss Troy, I was going to tell you how Caley Burt painted my portrait in Noo York. You’ve heard of Caley Burt? I guess he’s one of the most exclusive portraitists in America. Well, it seems he was just crazy to take my picture— ”