They were actually few, but as usual they were intensely embarrassing. Her reluctance to undertake the portrait was playfully outlined. His own pleasure in the sittings was remorselessly sketched.

Some rather naïve quotations on art from Timon of Athens were introduced, and then: ‘But I must not tantalize my audience any longer,’ said Sir Henry richly. ‘Curtain, my boy. Curtain!’

The house lights went down: the front drop slid upwards. Simultaneously four powerful floodlamps poured down their beams from the flies. The scarlet tabs were drawn apart, and there, in a blaze of highly unsuitable light, the portrait was revealed.

Above the sombre head and flying against a clear patch of night sky, somebody had painted an emerald green cow with vermilion wings. It was in the act of secreting an object that might or might not have been a black bomb.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Big Exit

THIS TIME TROY FELT only a momentary sensation of panic. That particular area of background was hard-dry, and almost at once she remembered this circumstance. She did, however, feel overwhelmingly irritated. Above the automatic burst of applause that greeted the unveiling and only petered out when the detail of the flying cow was observed, she heard her own voice saying loudly: ‘No, really, this is too much.’

At the same moment Cedric, who had evidently operated the curtains, stuck his head round the proscenium, stared blindly into the front of the house, turned, saw the portrait, clapped his hand over his mouth and ejaculated: ‘Oh, God! Oh, Dynamite!’

‘Darling!’ said his mother from the back row ‘Ceddie, dear! What’s the matter?’

Sir Henry, on Troy’s left, breathed stertorously, and contrived to let out a sort of hoarse roaring noise.

‘It’s all right,’ said Troy. ‘Please don’t say anything. Wait.’

She strode furiously down the aisle and up the steps. Sacrificing her best evening handkerchief, she reduced the cow to a green smear. ‘I think there’s a bottle of turpentine somewhere,’ she said loudly. ‘Please give it to me.’

Paul ran up with it, offering his own handkerchief. Cedric flew out with a handful of rag. The blemish was removed. Meantime the auditorium rang with Miss Orrincourt’s hysterical laughter and buzzed with the sound of bewildered Ancreds. Troy threw the handkerchief and rag into the wings, and, with hot cheeks, returned to her seat. ‘I wouldn’t have been so cross,’ she thought grimly, ‘if the damn thing hadn’t looked so funny.’

‘I demand,’ Sir Henry was shouting, ‘I demand to know the author of this outrage.’

He was answered by a minor uproar topped by Pauline: ‘It was not Panty. I tell you, Millamant, once and for all, that Panty is in bed, and has been there since five o’clock. Papa, I protest. It was not Panty.’

‘Nuts!’ said Miss Orrincourt. ‘She’s been painting green cows for days. I’ve seen them. Come off it, dear.’

‘Papa, I give you my solemn word—’