Here's the next chapter. Hope you enjoy it, at least, even if you don't put it up. This may be the last chapter for a while, so feel free to add, change, etc. I would not personally plan to describe Miss Porter pigging out--yet--after this chapter. But do what you want, if you are so inclined.
The cottage of Basil Remington--Megan was charmed to find--actually was a cottage, complete with chopped firewood outside, a smoking chimney, and ramshackle roof.
She knocked on the door, feeling, as she did so, a bit nervous. She was not sure why. She did, after all, have her own paints to protect her. Yet she almost jumped when the door swung to, and, standing across the threshold, extending his hand, was a gaunt, tall man, of late middle age, wearing (of all things) a waistcoat and sporting a type of facial hair (she was not sure what it was called) that must have gone out of style in his father's generation.
'Good afternoon, he said, his greeting tinged with a Scottish accent. He brought her hand to his mouth as though to kiss it without actually doing so. 'You must be Mrs. Porker? Please come in.'
'Miss,' she replied, stepping in. She suddenly thought it strange that she had corrected this part of his misappellation first. 'And it's Porter. Anyway, please call me Megan.'
'So sorry,' he laughed. 'I'm afraid my memory is not what it once was. Knew a Mrs. Porker once, if you can believe it. I was going to ask if you were any relation, but now I'll just have to be awkwardly silent while I get out my paints.'
He was, of course, nothing of the kind. Megan had never met a hermit who was so well-mannered, and said so.
'Oh, I like people, Miss Porter--'
'--Megan--'
'You have to like people to paint them, Megan, that's what I always say.'
As her eyes adjusted to the diminished light of the room--which seemed to serve, at once, as a foyer, kitchen, and studio, she noticed that there did not seem to be a single painting hanging on the wall.
'Now,' he said, bringing out a camera that must have been decades old, 'I'm going to take a few photographs of you to use as reference shots later. I hope that's all right. I prefer, of course, to do things the old fashioned way--as the old masters did, with just sketches--but these days life is so hectic, I simply don't have time. Now, look pretty. I trust that won't be hard for you, if you don't mind me saying!'
She was a bit offended at this (though she was suddenly unsure of why), and she used his imposture as a pretext for her own. 'Actually, if you don't mind, Mr. Remington--'
'Please, it's Basil.'
'If you don't mind, Basil, I'd appreciate it if I could take out my paints, and if you could paint me painting. See, I'm the art teacher at the school, and--'
'I love it!' shouted Basil over the rest of her explanation. 'Please do--the painter painted, the agent as object, all that stuff--oh, Miss Porker, it will make MY work so much more interesting!'
'Megan,' she said, again, not bothering this time to correct his pronunciation of her last name.
'I was wondering,' she said, 'if while you painted me, you would let me paint you?' She had planned to do this, of course, merely to guard against her own vulnerability. But as she said the words, she knew she wanted to paint this strange, lean man, with his wild gray hair and distinctly Scotch face.
The face itself lost its smile at her suggestion, trading it for a decidedly thoughtful look. His moustache drooped a bit. A quizzical expression knotted his brow. 'Well,' he said, 'that's certainly interesting. Tell the truth, I don't think I've ever been painted myself. I can't say I like the idea...and I know that's hypocrisy, sheer hypocrisy, for a painter not to like someone to paint him!'
'I don't think so,' said Megan. 'I actually hate being painted--that's why it would help me if you let me paint you! It would give me something else to think about!'
'I see,' said Basil. 'Tell the truth, I'm still a bit uncomfortable with it, though. Can I suggest an, um, 'artist's agreement,' where we make a secret pact not to paint each other?'
Megan laughed. The man was strange, but he certainly--much like Ms. Polluck, she realized--knew how to be polite. 'You know you can't do that, though, Basil. It's your job to paint me.'
'Well,' he said, 'you understand my position, then. I'll still let you paint, but would you mind agreeing to paint something else? The view outside is lovely, and, as I'm sure you've noticed, my cabin is quite, er, quaint.'
'That's fine,' she laughed, agreeing to no such thing in her mind. She would, she decided, paint him whether he would or no.
He took the reference shots of her, 'to help later,' he said, and the two unpacked their paints, pencils, brushes and canvases. Even with her own project, thought Megan, it was unsettling not being able to see what he was doing. It was like being talked about behind one's back.
She began to sketch his long, lean, energetic figure. 'So I noticed you don't have any paintings out in your studio?'
He laughed behind his easel. 'No, no, my dear. I cleaned all the works-in-progress out of here when I heard you would be coming. I hate having my stuff seen before it's ready.'
'Even by another artist?' she asked, trying not to sound too curious.
'Especially by another artist,' he said.
The time went by quickly. Megan was enjoying her painting--almost too engrossed in capturing the details of the man's face to remember that she was doing it on the sly. She kept wanting to say things like, 'You have a very chiseled face, Basil,' or something else that would have given the whole game away.
The sun was beginning to set when Basil at last stepped back from his canvas and said, 'Well, Miss Porker--sorry, Megan--I think I have enough, if you do.'
'I think so, Mr. Remingson--sorry, Basil--she laughed. Megan at once packed up her things, so as not to let the man see what was on her canvas. She had, she thought, gotten a pretty good likeness of him, but she would have to use sketches rather than photographs as reference as she perfected it.
Looking out the window, she noticed the sun had already nearly gone down. She loved walking, but she wasn't sure how she like the idea of walking through woods in the dark. She suddenly remembered her dream of the night before, and shuddered. 'Um,' she began.
'Say no more,' laughed Basil. 'I'll call Buttercombe and have them send down one of those ridiculous--what are they called--'cabwagons' for you.'
'I'm so glad you think they're ridiculous, too!' she laughed. He was, really, a most likable man. And not at all hard to look at, she thought, despite his age.
As they waited for the cabwagon, they talked a bit, though she felt--and he seemed--rather shy. She felt they had just been--well--intimate, and now they were backtracking and attempting to get to know each other.
After about five minutes of conversation, punctuated by long pauses, Basil leapt up. 'You must be famished, Miss--uh, Megan--he cried. Please, let me heat a biscuit for the road. And would you like some tea?'
She reluctantly accepted for politeness' sake, but was glad she had the moment she bit into the biscuit. It was actually a scone, and was not particularly chewy, or gooey, or sweet, or anything else. But it tasted good.
When the cabwagon arrived, she thanked him, and took her seat, telling the driver where she wanted to go, and she was whisked back to her own cabin--which now felt rather un-cabinly. She unpacked her paints and her canvas, and looked again at her half-finished portrait of Mr. Remington. He really wasn't a bad-looking man. Perhaps she would call on him again before too long. She went to her closet (it was a spacious, walk-in closet) to change out of her paint clothes, glancing in the full-length (and full-width) mirror as she did so. Was her face, she thought, a bit fuller than it had been?
'Nah,' she said, refusing to weigh herself. Suddenly, though, she realized she was very hungry.
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