Pontiac interrupted. "Oh, of course, it is too bad. Everything is toobad. My dear sir, nothing is so much to be regretted as the universe.But this Florinda is such a sturdy young soul! The world is against her,but, bless your heart, she is equal to the battle. She is strong in themanner of a little child. Why, you don't know her. She----"
"I know her very well."
"Well, perhaps you do, but for my part I think you don't appreciate herformidable character and stunning figure--stunning!"
"Damn it!" said Hawker to his coffee cup, which he had accidentallyoverturned.
"Well," resumed Pontiac, "she is a stunning model, and I think, Mr.Hawker, you are to be envied."
"Eh?" said Hawker.
"I wish I could inspire my models with such obedience and devotion. ThenI would not be obliged to rail at them for being late, and have tobadger them for not showing up at all. She has a beautifulfigure--beautiful."
CHAPTER XXIX.
When Hawker went again to the house of the great window he looked firstat the colossal chandelier, and, perceiving that it had not moved, hesmiled in a certain friendly and familiar way.
"It must be a fine thing," said the girl dreamily. "I always feelenvious of that sort of life."
"What sort of life?"
"Why--I don't know exactly; but there must be a great deal of freedomabout it. I went to a studio tea once, and----"
"A studio tea! Merciful heavens---- Go on."
"Yes, a studio tea. Don't you like them? To be sure, we didn't knowwhether the man could paint very well, and I suppose you think it is animposition for anyone who is not a great painter to give a tea."
"Go on."
"Well, he had the dearest little Japanese servants, and some of the cupscame from Algiers, and some from Turkey, and some from---- What's thematter?"
"Go on. I'm not interrupting you."
"Well, that's all; excepting that everything was charming in colour, andI thought what a lazy, beautiful life the man must lead, lounging insuch a studio, smoking monogrammed cigarettes, and remarking how badlyall the other men painted."
"Very fascinating. But----"
"Oh! you are going to ask if he could draw. I'm sure I don't know, butthe tea that he gave was charming."
"I was on the verge of telling you something about artist life, but ifyou have seen a lot of draperies and drunk from a cup of Algiers, youknow all about it."
"You, then, were going to make it something very terrible, and tell howyoung painters struggled, and all that."
"No, not exactly. But listen: I suppose there is an aristocracy who,whether they paint well or paint ill, certainly do give charming teas,as you say, and all other kinds of charming affairs too; but when Ihear people talk as if that was the whole life, it makes my hair rise,you know, because I am sure that as they get to know me better andbetter they will see how I fall short of that kind of an existence, andI shall probably take a great tumble in their estimation. They mighteven conclude that I can not paint, which would be very unfair, becauseI can paint, you know."
"Well, proceed to arrange my point of view, so that you sha'n't tumblein my estimation when I discover that you don't lounge in a studio,smoke monogrammed cigarettes, and remark how badly the other men paint."
"That's it. That's precisely what I wish to do."
"Begin."
"Well, in the first place----"
"In the first place--what?"
"Well, I started to study when I was very poor, you understand. Lookhere! I'm telling you these things because I want you to know, somehow.It isn't that I'm not ashamed of it. Well, I began very poor, and I--asa matter of fact--I--well, I earned myself over half the money for mystudying, and the other half I bullied and badgered and beat out of mypoor old dad. I worked pretty hard in Paris, and I returned hereexpecting to become a great painter at once. I didn't, though. In fact,I had my worst moments then. It lasted for some years. Of course, thefaith and endurance of my father were by this time worn to ashadow--this time, when I needed him the most. However, things got alittle better and a little better, until I found that by working quitehard I could make what was to me a fair income. That's where I am now,too."
"Why are you so ashamed of this story?"
"The poverty."
"Poverty isn't anything to be ashamed of."
"Great heavens! Have you the temerity to get off that old nonsensicalremark? Poverty is everything to be ashamed of. Did you ever see aperson not ashamed of his poverty? Certainly not. Of course, when a mangets very rich he will brag so loudly of the poverty of his youth thatone would never suppose that he was once ashamed of it. But he was."
"Well, anyhow, you shouldn't be ashamed of the story you have just toldme."
"Why not? Do you refuse to allow me the great right of being like othermen?"
"I think it was--brave, you know."
"Brave? Nonsense! Those things are not brave. Impression to that effectcreated by the men who have been through the mill for the greater gloryof the men who have been through the mill."
"I don't like to hear you talk that way. It sounds wicked, you know."
"Well, it certainly wasn't heroic. I can remember distinctly that therewas not one heroic moment."
"No, but it was--it was----"
"It was what?"
"Well, somehow I like it, you know."
CHAPTER XXX.
"There's three of them," said Grief in a hoarse whisper.
"Four, I tell you!" said Wrinkles in a low, excited tone.
"Four," breathed Pennoyer with decision.
They held fierce pantomimic argument. From the corridor came sounds ofrustling dresses and rapid feminine conversation.
Grief had kept his ear to the panel of the door. His hand was stretchedback, warning the others to silence. Presently he turned his head andwhispered, "Three."
"Four," whispered Pennoyer and Wrinkles.
"Hollie is there, too," whispered Grief. "Billie is unlocking the door.Now they're going in. Hear them cry out, 'Oh, isn't it lovely!' Jinks!"He began a noiseless dance about the room. "Jinks! Don't I wish I had abig studio and a little reputation! Wouldn't I have my swell friendscome to see me, and wouldn't I entertain 'em!" He adopted a descriptivemanner, and with his forefinger indicated various spaces of the wall."Here is a little thing I did in Brittany. Peasant woman in sabots. Thisbrown spot here is the peasant woman, and those two white things are thesabots. Peasant woman in sabots, don't you see? Women in Brittany, ofcourse, all wear sabots, you understand. Convenience of the painters. Isee you are looking at that little thing I did in Morocco. Ah, youadmire it? Well, not so bad--not so bad. Arab smoking pipe, squatting indoorway. This long streak here is the pipe. Clever, you say? Oh, thanks!You are too kind. Well, all Arabs do that, you know. Sole occupation.Convenience of the painters. Now, this little thing here I did inVenice. Grand Canal, you know. Gondolier leaning on his oar. Convenienceof the painters. Oh, yes, American subjects are well enough, but hard tofind, you know--hard to find. Morocco, Venice, Brittany, Holland--alloblige with colour, you know--quaint form--all that. We are so hideouslymodern over here; and, besides, nobody has painted us much. How thedevil can I paint America when nobody has done it before me? My dearsir, are you aware that that would be originality? Good heavens! we arenot aesthetic, you understand. Oh, yes, some good mind comes along andunderstands a thing and does it, and after that it is aesthetic. Yes, ofcourse, but then--well---- Now, here is a little Holland thing of mine;it----"
The others had evidently not been heeding him. "Shut up!" said Wrinklessuddenly. "Listen!" Grief paused his harangue and they sat in silence,their lips apart, their eyes from time to time exchanging eloquentmessages. A dulled melodious babble came from Hawker's studio.
At length Pennoyer murmured wistfully, "I would like to see her."
Wrinkles started noiselessly to his feet. "Well, I tell you she's apeach. I was going up the steps, you know, with a loaf of bread under myarm, when I chanced to look up the street and saw
Billie and Hollandencoming with four of them."
"Three," said Grief.
"Four; and I tell you I scattered. One of the two with Billie was apeach--a peach."
"O, Lord!" groaned the others enviously. "Billie's in luck."
"How do you know?" said Wrinkles. "Billie is a blamed good fellow, butthat doesn't say she will care for him--more likely that she won't."
They sat again in silence, grinning, and listening to the murmur ofvoices.
There came the sound of a step in the hallway. It ceased at a pointopposite the door of Hawker's studio. Presently it was heard again.Florinda entered the den. "Hello!" she cried, "who is over in Billie'splace? I was just going to knock----"
They motioned at her violently. "Sh!" they whispered. Their countenanceswere very impressive.
"What's the matter with you fellows?" asked Florinda in her ordinarytone; whereupon they made gestures of still greater wildness. "S-s-sh!"
Florinda lowered her voice properly. "Who is over there?"
"Some swells," they whispered.
Florinda bent her head. Presently she gave a little start. "Who is overthere?" Her voice became a tone of deep awe. "She?"
Wrinkles and Grief exchanged a swift glance. Pennoyer said gruffly, "Whodo you mean?"
"Why," said Florinda, "you know. She. The--the girl that Billie likes."
Pennoyer hesitated for a moment and then said wrathfully: "Of course sheis! Who do you suppose?"
"Oh!" said Florinda. She took a seat upon the divan, which was privatelya coal-box, and unbuttoned her jacket at the throat. "Is she--isshe--very handsome, Wrink?"
Wrinkles replied stoutly, "No."
Grief said: "Let's make a sneak down the hall to the little unoccupiedroom at the front of the building and look from the window there. Whenthey go out we can pipe 'em off."
"Come on!" they exclaimed, accepting this plan with glee.
Wrinkles opened the door and seemed about to glide away, when hesuddenly turned and shook his head. "It's dead wrong," he said,ashamed.
"Oh, go on!" eagerly whispered the others. Presently they stolepattering down the corridor, grinning, exclaiming, and cautioning eachother.
At the window Pennoyer said: "Now, for heaven's sake, don't let them seeyou!--Be careful, Grief, you'll tumble.--Don't lean on me that way,Wrink; think I'm a barn door? Here they come. Keep back. Don't let themsee you."
"O-o-oh!" said Grief. "Talk about a peach! Well, I should say so."
Florinda's fingers tore at Wrinkle's coat sleeve. "Wrink, Wrink, is thather? Is that her? On the left of Billie? Is that her, Wrink?"
"What? Yes. Stop punching me! Yes, I tell you! That's her. Are youdeaf?"
CHAPTER XXXI.
In the evening Pennoyer conducted Florinda to the flat of manyfire-escapes. After a period of silent tramping through the great goldenavenue and the street that was being repaired, she said, "Penny, you arevery good to me."
"Why?" said Pennoyer.
"Oh, because you are. You--you are very good to me, Penny."
"Well, I guess I'm not killing myself."
"There isn't many fellows like you."
"No?"
"No. There isn't many fellows like you, Penny. I tell you 'mosteverything, and you just listen, and don't argue with me and tell me I'ma fool, because you know that it--because you know that it can't behelped, anyhow."
"Oh, nonsense, you kid! Almost anybody would be glad to----"
"Penny, do you think she is very beautiful?" Florinda's voice had asingular quality of awe in it.
"Well," replied Pennoyer, "I don't know."
"Yes, you do, Penny. Go ahead and tell me."
"Well----"
"Go ahead."
"Well, she is rather handsome, you know."
"Yes," said Florinda, dejectedly, "I suppose she is." After a time shecleared her throat and remarked indifferently, "I suppose Billie cares alot for her?"
"Oh, I imagine that he does--in a way."
"Why, of course he does," insisted Florinda. "What do you mean by 'in away'? You know very well that Billie thinks his eyes of her."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. You know you do. You are talking in that way just to braceme up. You know you are."
"No, I'm not."
"Penny," said Florinda thankfully, "what makes you so good to me?"
"Oh, I guess I'm not so astonishingly good to you. Don't be silly."
"But you are good to me, Penny. You don't make fun of me the way--theway the other boys would. You are just as good as you can be.--But youdo think she is beautiful, don't you?"
"They wouldn't make fun of you," said Pennoyer.
"But do you think she is beautiful?"
"Look here, Splutter, let up on that, will you? You keep harping on onestring all the time. Don't bother me!"
"But, honest now, Penny, you do think she is beautiful?"
"Well, then, confound it--no! no! no!"
"Oh, yes, you do, Penny. Go ahead now. Don't deny it just because youare talking to me. Own up, now, Penny. You do think she is beautiful?"
"Well," said Pennoyer, in a dull roar of irritation, "do you?"
Florinda walked in silence, her eyes upon the yellow flashes whichlights sent to the pavement. In the end she said, "Yes."
"Yes, what?" asked Pennoyer sharply.
"Yes, she--yes, she is--beautiful."
"Well, then?" cried Pennoyer, abruptly closing the discussion.
Florinda announced something as a fact. "Billie thinks his eyes of her."
"How do you know he does?"
"Don't scold at me, Penny. You--you----"
"I'm not scolding at you. There! What a goose you are, Splutter! Don't,for heaven's sake, go to whimpering on the street! I didn't say anythingto make you feel that way. Come, pull yourself together."
"I'm not whimpering."
"No, of course not; but then you look as if you were on the edge of it.What a little idiot!"
CHAPTER XXXII.
When the snow fell upon the clashing life of the city, the exiledstones, beaten by myriad strange feet, were told of the dark, silentforests where the flakes swept through the hemlocks and swished softlyagainst the boulders.
In his studio Hawker smoked a pipe, clasping his knee with thoughtful,interlocked fingers. He was gazing sourly at his finished picture. Oncehe started to his feet with a cry of vexation. Looking back over hisshoulder, he swore an insult into the face of the picture. He paced toand fro, smoking belligerently and from time to time eying it. Thehelpless thing remained upon the easel, facing him.
Hollanden entered and stopped abruptly at sight of the great scowl."What's wrong now?" he said.
Hawker gestured at the picture. "That dunce of a thing. It makes metired. It isn't worth a hang. Blame it!"
"What?" Hollanden strode forward and stood before the painting with legsapart, in a properly critical manner. "What? Why, you said it was yourbest thing."
"Aw!" said Hawker, waving his arms, "it's no good! I abominate it! Ididn't get what I wanted, I tell you. I didn't get what I wanted. That?"he shouted, pointing thrust-way at it--"that? It's vile! Aw! it makes meweary."
"You're in a nice state," said Hollanden, turning to take a criticalview of the painter. "What has got into you now? I swear, you are morekinds of a chump!"
Hawker crooned dismally: "I can't paint! I can't paint for a damn! I'mno good. What in thunder was I invented for, anyhow, Hollie?"
"You're a fool," said Hollanden. "I hope to die if I ever saw such acomplete idiot! You give me a pain. Just because she don't----"
"It isn't that. She has nothing to do with it, although I know wellenough--I know well enough----"
"What?"
"I know well enough she doesn't care a hang for me. It isn't that. It isbecause--it is because I can't paint. Look at that thing over there!Remember the thought and energy I---- Damn the thing!"
"Why, did you have a row with her?" asked Hollanden, perplexed. "Ididn't know---
-"
"No, of course you didn't know," cried Hawker, sneering; "because I hadno row. It isn't that, I tell you. But I know well enough"--he shook hisfist vaguely--"that she don't care an old tomato can for me. Why shouldshe?" he demanded with a curious defiance. "In the name of Heaven, whyshould she?"
"I don't know," said Hollanden; "I don't know, I'm sure. But, then,women have no social logic. This is the great blessing of the world.There is only one thing which is superior to the multiplicity of socialforms, and that is a woman's mind--a young woman's mind. Oh, of course,sometimes they are logical, but let a woman be so once, and she willrepent of it to the end of her days. The safety of the world's balancelies in woman's illogical mind. I think----"
"Go to blazes!" said Hawker. "I don't care what you think. I am sure ofone thing, and that is that she doesn't care a hang for me!"
"I think," Hollanden continued, "that society is doing very well in itswork of bravely lawing away at Nature; but there is one immovablething--a woman's illogical mind. That is our safety. Thank Heaven,it----"
"Go to blazes!" said Hawker again.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
As Hawker again entered the room of the great windows he glanced insidelong bitterness at the chandelier. When he was seated he looked atit in open defiance and hatred.
Men in the street were shovelling at the snow. The noise of theirinstruments scraping on the stones came plainly to Hawker's ears in aharsh chorus, and this sound at this time was perhaps to him a_miserere_.