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Fair of Face C. Hare
John Franklin, with whom I was at Oxford, invited me to stay with his people at Markhampton for the Markshire Hunt Ball’. He and his sister were arranging a small party for it, he said.
«I’ve never met your sister,» I remarked. «What is she like?»
«She is a beauty,» said John, seriously and simply.
I thought at the time that it was an odd, old-fashioned phrase, but it turned out to be strictly and literally true. Deborah Franklin was beautiful in the grand, classic manner. She didn’t look in the least like a film star or a model. But looking at her you forgot everything. It was the sheer beauty of her face that took your breath away.
With looks like that, it would be asking too much to expect anything startling in the way of brains, and I found Deborah, a trifle dull. She was of course well aware of her extraordinary good looks, and was perfectly prepared to discuss them, just as a man seven feet high might talk about the advantages and inconveniences of being tall.
Most of our party were old friends of the Franklins, who took Deborah for granted as a local phenomenon, but among them was a newcomer – a young man with a beard named Aubrey Melcombe, who had latelytaken charge of the local museum. As soon as he set eyes on Deborah he said:
«We have never met before, but your face, of course, is perfectly familiar.»
Deborah had evidently heard that one before.
«I never give sitting to photographers,» she said, «but people will snap me in the street. It’s such a nuisance.»
«Photographs!» said Aubrey. «I mean your portrait – the one that was painted four hundred years ago. Has nobody ever told you that you are the living image of the Warbeck Titian?