"CouldI see you at such moments? I—there's a—some—a kind of sentiment about me—when I'mverylonely; and I've been foolish enough to let one or two men see it—in fact I've been rather indiscreet—silly—with a man—several men—now and then. A lonely girl is easily sympathised with—and rather likes it; and is inclined to let herself go a little…. I don't want to…. And at times I've done it…. Sam Ogilvy nearly kissed me, which really doesn't count—does it? But I let Harry Annan do it, once…. If I'm weak enough to drift into such silliness I'd better find a safeguard. I've been thinking—thinking—that it really does originate in a sort of foolish loneliness …not in anything worse. So I thought I'd have a thorough talk with you about it. I'm twenty-one—with all my experience of life and of men crowded into a single winter and spring. I have as friends only the few people I have met through you. I have nobody to see unless I see them—nowhere to go unless I go where they ask me…. So I thought I'd ask you to let me depend a little on you, sometimes—as a refuge from isolation and morbid thinking now and then. And from other mischief—for which I apparently have a capacity—to judge by what I've done—and what I've let men do already."
She laid her hand lightly on his arm in sudden and impulsive confidence:
"That's my 'thorough talk.' I haven't any one else to tell it to. And I've told you the worst." She smiled at him adorably: "And now I am ready to go out with you," she said,—"go anywhere in the world with you, Kelly. And I am going to be perfectly happy—if you are."
One day toward the middle of June Valerie did not arrive on time at the studio. She had never before been late.
About two o'clock Sam Ogilvy sauntered in, a skull pipe in his mouth, his hair rumpled:
"It's that damn mermaid of mine," he said, "can't you come up and look at her and tell me what's the trouble, Kelly?"
"Not now. Who's posing?"
"Rita. She's in a volatile humour, too—fidgets; denies fidgeting; reproaches me for making her keep quiet; says I draw like a bum chimney—no wonder my work's rotten! Besides, she's in a tub of water, wearing that suit of fish-scales I had made for Violet Cliland, and she says it's too tight and she's tired of the job, anyway. Fancy my mental condition."
"Oh, she won't throw you down. Rita is a good sport," said Neville.
"I hope so. It's an important picture. Really, Kelly, it's great stuff—a still, turquoise-tinted pool among wet rocks; ebb tide; a corking little mermaid caught in a pool left by the receding waves—all tones and subtle values," he declared, waving his arm.
"Don't paint things in the air with your thumb," said Neville, coldly."No wonder Rita is nervous."
"Rita is nervous," said Ogilvy, "because she's been on a bat and supped somewhere until the coy and rosy dawn chased her homeward. And your pretty paragon, Miss West, was with the party—"
"What?" said Neville, sharply.
"Sure thing! Harry Annan, Rita, Burleson, Valerie—and I don't know who else. They feasted somewhere east of Coney—where the best is like the würst—and ultimately became full of green corn, clams, watermelon, and assorted fidgets…. Can't you come up and look at my picture?"
Neville got up, frowning, and followed Ogilvy upstairs.
Rita Tevis, swathed in a blanket from which protruded a dripping tinselled fish's tail, sat disconsolately on a chair, knitting a red-silk necktie for some party of the second part, as yet unidentified.
"Mr. Neville," she said, "Sam has been quarrelling with me every minute while I'm doing my best in that horrid tub of water. If anybody thinks it's a comfortable pose, let them try it! I wish—IwishI could have the happiness of seeing Sam afloat in this old fish-scale suit with every spangle sticking into him and his legs cramped into this unspeakable tail!"
She extended a bare arm, shook hands, pulled up her blanket wrap, and resumed her knitting with a fierce glance at Ogilvy, who had attempted an appealing smile.
Neville stood stock-still before the canvas. The picture promised well; it was really beautiful—the combined result of several outdoor studies now being cleverly worked up. But Ogilvy's pictures never kept their promise.
[Illustration: "Neville stood stock-still before the canvas."]
"Also," observed Rita, reproachfully, "Iposeden plein airfor those rainbow sketches of his—and though it was a lonely cove with a cunningly secluded little crescent beach, I was horribly afraid of somebody coming—and besides I got most cruelly sun-burned—"
"Rita! Yousaidyou enjoyed that excursion!" exclaimed Ogilvy, with pathos.
"I said it to flatter that enormous vanity of yours, Sam. I had a perfectly wretched time."
"What sort of a time did you have last evening?" inquired Neville, turning from the picture.
"Horrid. Everybody ate too much, and Valerie spooned with a new man—I don't remember his name. She went out in a canoe with him and they sang 'She kissed him on the gangplank when the boat moved out.'"
Neville, silent, turned to the picture once more. In a low rapid voice he indicated to Ogilvy where matters might be differently treated, stepped back a few paces, nodded decisively, and turned again to Rita:
"I've been waiting for Miss West," he said. "Have you any reason to think that she might not keep her appointment this morning?"
"She had a headache when we got home," said Rita. "She stayed with me last night. I left her asleep. Why don't you ring her up. You know my number."
"All right," said Neville, shortly, and went out.
When he first tried to ring her up the wire was busy. It was a party wire, yet a curious uneasiness set him pacing the studio, smoking, brows knitted, until he decided it was time to try again.
This time he recognised her distant voice: "Hello—hello!Isthat you,Mr. Neville?"
"Valerie!"
"Oh, itisyou, Kelly? I hoped you would call me up. Iknewit must beyou!"
"Yes, it is. What the deuce is the matter? Are you ill?"
"Oh, dear, no.'"
"What,then?"
[Illustration: "When he first tried to ring her up the wire was busy."]
"I wassosleepy, Kelly. Please forgive me. We had such a late party—and it was daylight before I went to bed. Please forgive me; won't you?"
"When I called you a few minutes ago your wire was busy. Were you conversing?"
"Yes. I was talking to José Querida."
"H'm!"
"José was with us last evening…. I went canoeing with him. He just called me up to ask how I felt."
"Hunh!"
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Are you annoyed, Louis?"
"No!"
"Oh, I thought it sounded as though you were irritated. I am so ashamed at having overslept. Who told you I was here? Oh, Rita, I suppose. Poor child, she was more faithful than I. The alarm clock woke her and she was plucky enough to get up—and I only yawned and thought of you, and I wassosleepy! Are you sure you do forgive me?"
"Of course."
"You don't say it very kindly."
"I mean it cordially," he snapped. He could hear her sigh: "I suppose you do." Then she added:
"I am dressing, Kelly. I don't wish for any breakfast, and I'll come to the studio as soon as I can—"
"Take your breakfast first!"
"No, I really don't care for—"
"All right. Come ahead."
"I will. Good-bye, Kelly, dear."
He rang off, picked up the telephone again, called the great HotelRegina, and ordered breakfast sent to his studio immediately.
When Valerie arrived she found silver, crystal, and snowy linen awaiting her with chilled grapefruit, African melon, fragrant coffee, toast, and pigeon's eggs poached on Astrakan caviar.
"Oh, Louis!" she exclaimed, enraptured; "I don't deserve this—but it is perfectly dear of you—and Iamhungry!… Good-morning," she added, shyly extending a fresh cool hand; "I am really none the worse for wear you see."
That was plain enough. In her fresh and youthful beauty the only sign of the night's unwisdom was in the scarcely perceptible violet tint under her thick lashes. Her skin was clear and white and dewy fresh, her dark eyes unwearied—her gracefully slender presence fairly fragrant with health and vigour.
She seated herself—offered to share with him in dumb appeal, urged him in delicious pantomime, and smiled encouragingly as he reluctantly found a chair beside her and divided the magnificent melon.
"Did you have a good time?" he asked, trying not to speak ungraciously.
"Y-yes…. It was a silly sort of a time."
"Silly?"
"I was rather sentimental—with Querida."
He said nothing—grimly.
"I told you last night, Louis. Why couldn't you see me?"
"I was dining out; I couldn't."
She sipped her chilled grapefruit meditatively:
"I hadn't seen you for a week," she laughed, glancing sideways at him, "and that lonely feeling began about five o'clock; and I called you up at seven because I couldn't stand it…. But you wouldn't see me; and so when Rita and the others came in a big touring car—do you blame me very much for going with them?"
"No."
Her expression became serious, a trifle appealing:
"My room isn't very attractive," she said, timidly. "It is scarcely big enough for the iron bed and one chair—and I get so tired trying to read or sew every evening by the gas—and it's very hot in there."
"Are you making excuses for going?"
"I do not know…. Unless people ask me, I have nowhere to go except to my room; and when a girl sits there evening after evening alone it—it is not very gay."
She tried the rich, luscious melon with much content, and presently her smile came back:
"Louis, it was a funny party. To begin we had one of those terrible clambakes—like a huge, horrid feast of the Middle Ages—and it did not agree with everybody—or perhaps it was because we weren't middle-aged—or perhaps it was just the beer. I drank water; so did the beautiful José Querida…. I think he is pretty nearly the handsomest man I ever saw; don't you?"
"He's handsome, cultivated, a charming conversationalist, and a really great painter," said Neville, drily.
She looked absently at the melon; tasted it: "He is very romantic … when he laughs and shows those beautiful, even teeth…. He's really quite adorable, Kelly—and so gentle and considerate—"
"That's the Latin in him."
"His parents were born in New York."
She sipped her coffee, tried a pigeon egg, inquired what it was, ate it, enchanted.
"How thoroughly nice you always are to me, Kelly!" she said, looking up in the engagingly fearless way characteristic of her when with him.
"Isn't everybody nice to you?" he said with a shrug which escaped her notice.
"Nice?" She coloured a trifle and laughed. "Not inyourway, Kelly. In the sillier sense they are—some of them."
"Even Querida?" he said, carelessly.
"Oh, just like other men—generously ready for any event. What self-sacrificing opportunists men are! After all, Kelly," she added, slipping easily into the vernacular, "it's always up to the girl."
"Is it?"
"Yes, I think so. I knew perfectly well that I had no business to letQuerida's arm remain around me. But—there was a moon, Kelly."
"Certainly."
"Why do you say 'certainly'?"
"Because therewasone."
"But you say it in a manner—" She hesitated, continued her breakfast in leisurely reflection for a while, then:
"Louis?"
"Yes."
"Am I too frank with you?"
"Why?"
"I don't know; I was just thinking. I tell you pretty nearly everything. If I didn't have you to tell—have somebody—" She considered, with brows slightly knitted—"if I didn't havesomebodyto talk to, it wouldn't be very good for me. I realise that."
"You need a grandmother," he said, drily; "and I'm the closest resemblance to one procurable."
The imagery struck her as humorous and she laughed.
"Poor Kelly," she said aloud to herself, "he is used and abused and imposed upon, and in revenge he offers his ungrateful tormentor delicious breakfasts.Whatshall his reward be?—or must he await it in Paradise where he truly belongs amid the martyrs and the blessed saints!"
Neville grunted.
"Oh,oh! such a post-Raphaelite scowl! Job won't bow to you when you go aloft, Kelly. Besides, polite martyrs smile pleasantly while enduring torment…. What are you going to do with me to-day?" she added, glancing around with frank curiosity at an easel which was set with a full-length virgin canvas.
"Portrait," he replied, tersely.
"Oh," she said, surprised. He had never before painted her clothed.
From moment to moment, as she leisurely breakfasted, she glanced around at the canvas, interested in the new idea of his painting her draped; a trifle perplexed, too.
"Louis," she said, "I don't quite see how you're ever going to find a purchaser for just a plain portrait of me."
He said, irritably: "I don't have to work for a livingeveryminute, do I? For Heaven's sake give me a day off to study."
"But—it seems like wasted time—"
"What is wasted time?"
"Why just to paint a portrait of me as I am. Isn't it?" She looked up smilingly, perfectly innocent of any self-consciousness. "In the big canvases for the Byzantine Theatre you always made my features too radiant, too glorious for portraits. It seems rather a slump to paint me as I am—just a girl in street clothes."
A singular expression passed over his face.
"Yes," he said, after a moment—"just a girl in street clothes. No clouds, no sky, no diaphanous draperies of silk; no folds of cloth of gold; no gemmed girdles, no jewels. Nothing of the old glamour, the old glory; no sunburst laced with mist; no 'light that never was on sea or land.' … Just a young girl standing in the half light of my studio…. And by God!—if I can not do it—the rest is worthless."
Amazed at his tone and expression she turned quickly, set back her cup, remained gazing at him, bewildered by the first note of bitterness she had ever heard in his voice.
He had risen and walked to his easel, back partly turned. She saw him fussing with his palette, colours, and brushes, watched him for a few moments, then she went away into the farther room where she had a glass shelf to herself with toilet requisites—a casual and dainty gift from him.
When she returned he was still bending over his colour-table; and she walked up and laid her hand on his shoulder—not quite understanding why she did it.
He straightened up to his full stature, surprised, turning his head to meet a very clear, very sweetly disturbed gaze.
"Kelly, dear, are you unhappy?"
"Why—no."
"You seem to be a little discontented."
[Illustration: "'Kelly, dear, are you unhappy?'"]
"I hope I am. It's a healthy sign."
"Healthy?"
"Certainly. The satisfied never get anywhere…. That Byzanite business has begun to wear on my nerves."
"Thousands and thousands of people have gone to see it, and have praised it. You know what the papers have been saying—"
Under her light hand she felt the impatient movement of his shoulders, and her hand fell away.
"Don't you care for it, now that it's finished?" she asked, wondering.
"I'm devilish sick of it," he said, so savagely that every nerve in her recoiled with a tiny shock. She remained silent, motionless, awaiting his pleasure. He set his palette, frowning. She had never before seen him like this.
After a while she said, quietly: "If you are waiting for me, please tell me what you expect me to do, because I don't know, Kelly."
"Oh, just stand over there," he said, vaguely; "just walk about and stop anywhere when you feel like stopping."
She walked a few steps at hazard, partly turned to look back at him with a movement adorable in its hesitation.
"Don't budge!" he said, brusquely.
"Am I to remain like this?"
"Exactly."
He picked up a bit of white chalk, went over to her, knelt down, and traced on the floor the outline of her shoes.
Then he went back, and, with his superbly cool assurance, began to draw with his brush upon the untouched canvas.
From where she stood, and as far as she could determine, he seemed, however, to work less rapidly than usual—with a trifle less decision—less precision. Another thing she noticed; the calm had vanished from his face. The vivid animation, the cool self-confidence, the half indolent relapse into careless certainty—all familiar phases of the man as she had so often seen him painting—were now not perceptible. There seemed to be, too, a curious lack of authority about his brush strokes at intervals—moments of grave perplexity, indecision almost resembling the hesitation of inexperience—and for the first time she saw in his gray eyes the narrowing concentration of mental uncertainty.
It seemed to her sometimes as though she were looking at a total stranger. She had never thought of him as having any capacity for the ordinary and lesser ills, vanities, and vexations—the trivial worries that beset other artists.
"Louis?" she said, full of curiosity.
"What?" he demanded, ungraciously.
"You are not one bit like yourself to-day."
He made no comment. She ventured again:
"Do I hold the pose properly?"
"Yes, thanks," he said, absently.
"May I talk?"
"I'd rather you didn't, Valerie, just at present."
"All right," she rejoined, cheerfully; but her pretty eyes watched him very earnestly, a little troubled.
When she was tired the pose ended; that had been their rule; but long after her neck and back and thighs and limbs begged for relief, she held the pose, reluctant to interrupt him. When at last she could endure it no longer she moved; but her right leg had lost not only all sense of feeling but all power to support her; and down she came with a surprised and frightened little exclamation—and he sprang to her and swung her to her feet again.
"Valerie! You bad little thing! Don't you know enough to stop when you're tired?"
[Illustration: "He picked up a bit of white chalk … and traced on the floor the outline of her shoes."]
"I—didn't know I was so utterly gone," she said, bewildered.
He passed his arm around her and supported her to the sofa where she sat, demure, a little surprised at her collapse, yet shyly enjoying his disconcerted attentions to her.
"It's your fault, Kelly. You had such a queer expression—not at all like you—that I tried harder than ever to help you—and fell down for my pains."
"You're an angel," he said, contritely, "but a silly one."
"A scared one, Kelly—and a fallen one." She laughed, flexing the muscles of her benumbed leg: "Your expression intimidated me. I didn't recognise you; I could not form any opinion of what was going on inside that very stern and frowning head of yours. If you look like that I'll never dare call you Kelly."
"Did I seem inhuman?"
"N-no. On the contrary—very human—ordinary—like the usual ill-tempered artist man, with whom I have learned how to deal. You know," she added, teasingly, "that you are calm and god-like, usually—and when you suddenly became a mere mortal—"
"I'll tell you what I'll do with you," he said; "I'll pick you up and put you to bed."
"I wish you would, Kelly. I haven't had half enough sleep."
He sat down beside her on the sofa: "Don't talk any more of that god-like business," he growled, "or I'll find the proper punishment."
"Wouldyoupunishme, Kelly?"
"I sure would."
"If I displeased you?"
"You bet."
"Really?" She turned partly toward him, half in earnest. "Suppose—suppose—" but she stopped suddenly, with a light little laugh that lingered pleasantly in the vast, still room.
She said: "I begin to think that there are two Kellys—no,oneKelly andoneLouis. Kelly is familiar to me; I seem to have known him all my life—the happy part of my life. Louis I have just seen for the first time—there at the easel, painting, peering from me to his canvas with Kelly's good-looking eyes all narrow with worry—"
"What on earth are you chattering about, Valerie?"
"You and Kelly…. I don't quite know which I like best—the dear, sweet, kind, clever, brilliant, impersonal, god-like Kelly, or this new Louis—so very abrupt in speaking to me—"
"Valerie, dear! Forgive me. I'm out of sorts somehow. It began—I don't know—waiting for you—wondering if you could be ill—all alone. Then that ass, Sam Ogilvy—oh, it's just oversmoking I guess, or—I don't know what."
She sat regarding him, head tipped unconsciously on one side in an attitude suggesting a mind concocting malice.
"Louis?"
"What?"
"You're very attractive when you're god-like—"
"You little wretch!"
"But—you're positively dangerous when you're human."
"Valerie! I'll—"
"The great god Kelly, or the fascinating, fearsome, erring Louis! Which is it to be? I've an idea that the time is come to decide!"
[Illustration: "'Iwillcall you a god if I like!'"]
Fairly radiating a charming aura of malice she sat back, nursing one knee, distractingly pretty and defiant, saying: "Iwillcall you a god if I like!"
"I'll tell you what, Valerie," he said, half in earnest; "I've played grandmother to you long enough, by Heck!"
"Oh, Kelly, be lofty and Olympian! Be a god and shame the rest of us!"
"I'll shamefully resemble one of 'em in another moment if you continue tormenting me!"
"Which one, great one?"
"Jupiter, little lady. He was the boss philanderer you know."
"What is a philanderer, my Olympian friend?"
"Oh, one of those Olympian divinities who always began the day by kissing the girls all around."
"Before breakfast?"
"Certainly."
"It's—after breakfast, Kelly."
"Luncheon and dinner still impend."
"Besides—I'm not a bit lonely to-day…. I'm afraid I wouldn't let you,Kel—I mean Louis."
"Why didn't you say 'Kelly'?"
"Kelly is too god-like to kiss."
"Oh! Sothat'sthe difference! Kelly isn't human; Louis is."
"Kelly, to me," she admitted, "is practically kissless…. I haven't thought about Louis in that regard."
"Consider the matter thoroughly."
"Do you wish me to?" She bent her head, smiling. Then, looking up with enchanting audacity:
"I really don't know, Mr. Neville. Some day when I'm lonely—and if Louis is at home and Kelly is out—you and I might spend an evening together on a moonlit lake and see how much of a human being Louis can be."
She laughed, watching him under the dark lashes, charming mouth mocking him in every curve.
"Do you think you're likely to be lonely to-night?" he asked, surprised at the slight acceleration of his pulses.
"No, I don't. Besides, you'd be only the great god Kelly to me this evening. Besides that I'm going to dinner with Querida, and afterward we're going to see the 'Joy of the Town' at the Folly Theatre."
"I didn't know," he said, curtly. For a few moments he sat there, looking interestedly at a familiar door-knob. Then rising: "Do you feel all right for posing?"
"Yes."
"Alors—"
"Allons, mon dieu!" she laughed.
Work began. She thought, watching him with sudden and unexpected shyness, that he seemed even more aloof, more preoccupied, more worried, more intent than before. In this new phase the man she had known as a friend was now entirely gone, vanished! Here stood an utter stranger, very human, very determined, very deeply perplexed, very much in earnest. Everything about this man was unknown to her. There seemed to be nothing about him that particularly appealed to her confidence, either; yet the very uncertainty was interesting her now—intensely.
This other phase of his dual personality had been so completely a surprise that, captivated, curious, she could keep neither her gaze from him nor her thoughts. Was it that she was going to miss in him the other charm, lose the delight in his speech, his impersonal and kindly manner, miss the comfortable security she had enjoyed with him, perhaps after some half gay, half sentimental conflict with lesser men?
What was she to expect from this brand-new incarnation of Louis Neville? The delightful indifference, fascinating absent-mindedness and personal neglect of the other phase? Would he be god enough to be less to her, now? Man enough to be more than other men? For a moment she had a little shrinking, a miniature panic lest this man turn too much like other men. But she let her eyes rest on him, and knew he would not. Whatever Protean changes might yet be reserved for her to witness, she came to the conclusion that this man was a man apart, different, and would not disappoint her no matter what he turned into.
She thought to herself: "If I want Kelly to lean on, he'll surely appear, god-like, impersonally nice, and kindly as ever; if I want Louis to torment and provoke and flirt with—a little—a very little—I'm quite sure he'll come, too. Whatever else is contained in Mr. Neville I don't know; but I like him separately and compositely, and I'm happy when I'm with him."
With which healthy conclusion she asked if she might rest, and came around to look at the canvas.
As she had stood in silence for some time, he asked her, a little nervously, what she thought of it.
"Louis—I don't know."
"Is your opinion unfavourable?"
"N-no. Iamlike that, am I not?"
"In a shadowy way. Itwillbe like you."
"Am I as—interesting?"
"More so," he said.
"Are you going to make me—beautiful?"
"Yes—or cut this canvas into shreds."
"Oh-h!" she exclaimed with a soft intake of breath; "would you have the heart to destroy me after you've made me?"
"I don't know what I'd do, Valerie. I never felt just this way about anything. If I can't paint you—a human, breathingyou—with all of you there on the canvas—allof you, soul, mind, and body—all of your beauty, your youth, your sadness, happiness—your errors, your nobility—you, Valerie!—then there's no telling what I'll do."
She said nothing. Presently she resumed the pose and he his painting.
It became very still in the sunny studio.
In that month of June, for the first time in his deliberately active career, Neville experienced a disinclination to paint. And when he realised that it was disinclination, it appalled him. Something—he didn't understand what—had suddenly left him satiated—and with all the uneasiness and discontent of satiation he forced matters until he could force no further.
He had commissions, several, and valuable; and let them lie. For the first time in all his life the blank canvas of an unexecuted commission left him untempted, unresponsive, weary.
He had, also, his portrait of Valerie to continue. He continued it mentally, at intervals; but for several days, now, he had not laid a brush to it.
"It's funny," he said to Querida, going out on the train to his sister's country home one delicious morning—"it's confoundedly odd that I should turn lazy in my old age. Do you think I'm worked out?" He gulped down a sudden throb of fear smilingly.
"Lie fallow," said Querida, gently. "No soil is deep enough to yield without rest."
"Yours does."
"Oh, for me," said Querida, showing his snowy teeth, "I often sicken of my fat sunlight, frying everything to an iridescent omelette." He shrugged, laughed: "I turn lazy for months every year. Try it, my friend. Don't you even keepmi-carême?"
Neville stared out of the window at the station platform past which they were gliding, and rose with Querida as the train stopped. His sister's touring car was waiting; into it stepped Querida, and he followed; and away they sped over the beautiful rolling country, where handsome cattle tried to behave like genuine Troyon's, and silvery sheep attempted to imitate Mauve, and even the trees, separately or in groups, did their best to look like sections of Rousseau, Diaz, and even Corot—but succeeded only in resembling questionable imitations.
"There's to be quite a week-end party?" inquired Querida.
"I don't know. My sister telephoned me to fill in. I fancy the party is for you."
"Forme!" exclaimed Querida with delightful enthusiasm. "That is most charming of Mrs. Collis."
"They'll all think it charming of you. Lord, what a rage you've become and what a furor you've aroused!… And you deserve it," added Neville, coolly.
Querida looked at him, calm intelligence in his dark gaze; and understood the honesty of the comment.
"That," he said, "if you permit the vigour of expression, is damn nice of you, Neville. But you can afford to be generous to other painters."
"Can I?" Neville turned and gazed at Querida, gray eyes clear in their searching inquiry. Then he laughed a little and looked out over the sunny landscape.
Querida's olive cheeks had reddened a trifle.
Neville said: "Whatisthe trouble with my work, anyway? Is it what some of you fellows say?"
Querida did not pretend to misunderstand:
"You're really a great painter, Neville. And you know it. Must you haveeverything?"
"Well—I'm going after it."
"Surely—surely. I, also. God knows my work lacks many, many things—"
"But it doesn't lack that one essential which mine lacks.Whatis it?"
Querida laughed: "I can't explain. For me—your Byzantine canvas—there is in it something not intimate—"
"Austere?"
"Yes—even in those divine and lovely throngs. There is, perhaps, an aloofness—even a self-denial—" He laughed again: "I deny myself nothing—on canvas—even I have the audacity to try to draw as you do!"
Neville sat thinking, watching the landscape speed away on either side in a running riot of green.
"Self-denial—too much of it—separates you from your kind," said Querida. "The solitary fasters are never personally pleasant; hermits are the world's public admiration and private abomination. Oh, the good world dearly loves to rub elbows with a talented sinner and patronise him and sentimentalise over him—one whose miracles don't hurt their eyes enough to blind them to the pleasant discovery that his halo is tarnished in spots and needs polishing, and that there's a patch on the seat of his carefully creased toga."
Neville laughed. Presently he said: "Until recently I've cherished theories. One of 'em was to subordinate everything in life to the enjoyment of a single pleasure—the pleasure of work…. I guess experience is putting that theory on the blink."
"Surely. You might as well make an entire meal of one favourite dish. For a day you could stand it, even like it, perhaps. After that—" he shrugged.
"But—I'dratherspend my time painting—if I could stand the diet."
"Would you? I don't know what I'd rather do. I like almost everything. It makes me paint better to talk to a pretty woman, for example. To kiss her inspires a masterpiece."
"Does it?" said Neville, thoughtfully.
"Of course. A week or two of motoring—riding, dancing, white flannel idleness—all these I adore. And," tapping his carefully pinned lilac tie—"inside of me I know that every pleasant experience, every pleasure I offer myself, is going to make me a better painter!"
"Experience," repeated the other.
"By all means and every means—experience in pleasure, in idleness, in love, in sorrow—but experience!—always experience, by hook or by crook, and at any cost. That is the main idea, Neville—mymain idea—like the luscious agglomeration of juicy green things which that cow is eating; they all go to make good milk. Bah!—that's a stupid simile," he added, reddening.
Neville laughed. Presently he pointed across the meadows.
"Isthatyour sister's place?" asked Querida with enthusiasm, interested and disappointed. "What a charming house!"
"That is Ashuelyn, my sister's house. Beyond is El Naúar, Cardemon's place…. Here we are."
The small touring car stopped; the young men descended to a grassy terrace where a few people in white flannels had gathered after breakfast. A slender woman, small of bone and built like an undeveloped girl, came forward, the sun shining on her thick chestnut hair.
"Hello, Lily," said Neville.
"Hello, Louis. Thank you for coming, Mr. Querida—it is exceedingly nice of you to come—" She gave him her firm, cool hand, smiled on him with unfeigned approval, turned and presented him to the others—Miss Aulne, Miss Swift, Miss Annan, a Mr. Cameron, and, a moment later, to her husband, Gordon Collis, a good-looking, deeply sun-burned young man whose only passion, except his wife and baby, was Ashuelyn, the home of his father.
But it was a quiet passion which bored nobody, not even his wife.
When conversation became general, with Querida as the centre around which it eddied, Neville, who had seated himself on the gray stone parapet near his sister, said in a low voice:
"Well, how goes it, Lily?"
"All right," she replied with boyish directness, but in the same low tone. "Mother and father have spent a week with us. You saw them in town?"
"Of course. I'll run up to Spindrift House to see them as often as I can this summer…. How's the kid?"
"Fine. Do you want to see him?"
"Yes, I'd like to."
His sister caught his hand, jumped up, and led him into the house to the nursery where a normal and in nowise extraordinary specimen of infancy reposed in a cradle, pink with slumber, one thumb inserted in its mouth.
"Isn't he a wonder," murmured Neville, venturing to release the thumb.
The young mother bent over, examining her offspring in all the eloquent silence of pride unutterable. After a little while she said: "I've got to feed him. Go back to the others, Louis, and say I'll be down after a while."
He sauntered back through the comfortable but modest house, glancing absently about him on his way to the terrace, nodding to familiar faces among the servants, stopping to inspect a sketch of his own which he had done long ago and which his sister loved and he hated.
"Rotten," he murmured—"it has an innocence about it that is actually more offensive than stupidity."
On the terrace Stephanie Swift came over to him:
"Do you want a single at tennis, Louis? The others are hot for Bridge—except Gordon Collis—and he is going to dicker with a farmer over some land he wants to buy."
Neville looked at the others:
"Do you mean to say that you people are going to sit here all hunched up around a table on a glorious day like this?"
"We are," said Alexander Cameron, calmly breaking the seal of two fresh, packs. "You artists have nothing to do for a living except to paint pretty models, and when the week end comes you're in fine shape to caper and cut up didoes. But we business men are too tired to go galumphing over the greensward when Saturday arrives. It's a wicker chair and a 'high one,' and peaceful and improving cards for ours."
Alice Annan laughed and glanced at Querida degrees Cameron's idea was her idea of what her brother Harry was doing for a living; but she wasn't sure that Querida would think it either flattering or humorous.
But Jose Querida laughed, too, saying: "Quite right, Mr. Cameron. It's only bluff with, us; we never work. Life is one continual comic opera."
"It's a cinch," murmured Cameron. "Stocks and bonds are exciting, butyourbusiness puts it all over us. Nobody would have to drive me to business every morning if there was a pretty model in a cosey studio awaiting me."
"Sandy, you're rather horrid," said Miss Aulne, watching him sort out the jokers from the new packs and, with a skilful flip, send them scaling out, across the grass, for somebody to pick up.
Cameron said: "How about this Trilby business, anyway, Miss Annan? You have a brother in it. Is the world of art full of pretty models clad in ballet skirts—when they wear anything? Is it all one mad, joyous melange of high-brow conversation discreetly peppered with low-brow revelry? Yes? No? Inform an art lover, please—as they say in theTimes Saturday Review."
"I don't know," said Miss Annan, laughing. "Harry never has anybody interesting in the studio when he lets me take tea there."
Rose Aulne said: "I saw some photographs of a very beautiful girl in SamOgilvy's studio—a model. What is her name, Alice?—the one Sam andHarry are always raving over?"
"They call her Valerie, I believe."
"Yes, that's the one—Valerie West, isn't it?Isit, Louis? You know her, of course."
Neville nodded coolly.
"Introduce me," murmured Cameron, spreading a pack for cutting. "Perhaps she'd like to see the Stock Exchange when I'm at my best."
"Is she such a beauty? Do you know her, too, Mr. Querida?" asked RoseAulne.
Querida laughed: "I do. Miss West is a most engaging, most amiable and cultivated girl, and truly very beautiful."
"Oh! Theyaresometimes educated?" asked Stephanie, surprised.
"Sometimes they are even equipped to enter almost any drawing-room in New York. It doesn't always require the very highest equipment to do that," he added, laughing.
"That sounds like romantic fiction," observed Alice Annan. "You are a poet, Mr. Querida."
"Oh, it's not often a girl like Valerie West crosses our path. I admit that. Now and then such a comet passes across our sky—or is reported. I never before saw any except this one."
"If she's as much of a winner as all that," began Cameron with decision,"I want to meet her immediately—"
"Mere brokers are out of it," said Alice…. "Cut, please."
Rose Aulne said: "If you painters only knew it, your stupid studio teas would be far more interesting if you'd have a girl like this Valerie West to pour for you … and for us to see."
"Yes," added Alice; "but they're a vain lot. They think we are unsophisticated enough to want to go to their old studios and be perfectly satisfied to look at their precious pictures, and listen to their art patter. I've told Harry that what we want is to see something of the real studio life; and he tries to convince me that it's about as exciting as a lawyer's life when he dictates to his stenographer."
[Illustration: "'If she's as much of a winner as all that,' beganCameron with decision, 'I want to meet her immediately—'"]
"Is it?" asked Stephanie of Neville.
"Just about as exciting. Some few business men may smirk at their stenographers; some few painters may behave in the same way to their models. I fancy it's the exception to the rule in any kind of business—isn't it, Sandy?"
"Certainly," said Cameron, hastily. "I never winked at my stenographer—never! never! Will you deal, Mr. Querida?" he asked, courteously.
"I should think a girl like that would be interesting to know," said Lily Collis, who had come up behind her brother and Stephanie Swift and stood, a hand on each of their shoulders, listening and looking on at the card game.
"That is what I wanted to say, too," nodded Stephanie. "I'd like to meet a really nice girl who is courageous enough, and romantic enough to pose for artists—"
"You mean poor enough, don't you?" said Neville. "They don't do it because it's romantic."
"It must be romantic work."
"It isn't, I assure you. It's drudgery—and sometimes torture."
Stephanie laughed: "I believe it's easy work and a gay existence full of romance. Don't undeceive me, Louis. And I think you're selfish not to let us meet your beautiful Valerie at tea."
"Why not?" added his sister. "I'd like to see her myself."
"Oh, Lily, you know perfectly well that oil and water don't mix," he said with a weary shrug.
"I suppose we're the oil," remarked Rose Aulne—"horrid, smooth, insinuating stuff. And his beautiful Valerie is the clear, crystalline, uncontaminated fountain of inspiration."
Lily Collis dropped her hands from Stephanie's and her brother's shoulders:
"Do ask us to tea to meet her, Louis," she coaxed.
"We've never seen a model—"
"Do you want me to exhibit a sensitive girl as a museum freak?" he asked, impatiently.
"Don't you suppose we know how to behave toward her? Really, Louis, you—"
"Probably you know how to behave. And I can assure you that she knows perfectly well how to behave toward anybody. But that isn't the question. You want to see her out of curiosity. You wouldn't make a friend of her—or even an acquaintance. And I tell you, frankly, I don't think it's square to her and I won't do it. Women are nuisances in studios, anyway."
"What a charming way your brother has of explaining things," laughed Stephanie, passing her arm through Lily's: "Shall we reveal to him that he was seen with his Valerie at the St. Regis a week ago?"
"Why not?" he said, coolly, but inwardly exasperated. "She's as ornamental as anybody who dines there."
"I don't dothatwithmystenographers!" called out Cameron gleefully, cleaning up three odd in spades. "Oh, don't talk to me, Louis! You're a gay bunch all right!—you're qualified, every one of you, artists and models, to join the merry, merry!"
Stephanie dropped Lily's arm with a light laugh, swung her tennis bat, tossed a ball into the sunshine, and knocked it over toward the tennis court.
"I'll take you on if you like, Louis!" she called back over her shoulder, then continued her swift, graceful pace, white serge skirts swinging above her ankles, bright hair wind-blown—a lithe, full, wholesome figure, very comforting to look at.
"Come upstairs; I'll show you where Gordon's shoes are," said his sister.
Gordon's white shoes fitted him, also his white trousers. When he was dressed he came out of the room and joined his sister, who was seated on the stairs, balancing his racquet across her knees.
"Louis," she said, "how about the good taste of taking that model of yours to the St. Regis?"
"It was perfectly good taste," he said, carelessly.
"Stephanie took it like an angel," mused his sister.
"Why shouldn't she? If there was anything queer about it, you don't suppose I'd select the St. Regis, do you?"
"Nobody supposed there was anything queer."
"Well, then," he demanded, impatiently, "what's the row?"
"There is no row. Stephanie doesn't make what you call rows. Neither does anybody in your immediate family. I was merely questioning the wisdom of your public appearance—under the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
His sister looked at him calmly:
"The circumstances of your understanding with Stephanie…. An understanding of years, which, in her mind at least, amounts to a tacit engagement."
"I'm glad you said that," he began, after a moment's steady thinking. "If that is the way that Stephanie and you still regard a college affair—"
"A—what!"
"A boy-and-girl preference which became an undergraduate romance—and has never amounted to anything more—"
"Louis!"
"What?"
"Don't youcarefor her?"
"Certainly; as much as I ever did—as much, as she really and actually cares for me," he answered, defiantly. "You know perfectly well what such affairs ever amount to—in the sentimental-ever-after line. Infant sweethearts almost never marry. She has no more idea of it than have I. We are fond of each other; neither of us has happened, so far, to encounter the real thing. But as soon as the right man comes along Stephanie will spread her wings and take flight—"
"You don't know her! Well—of all faithless wretches—your inconstancy makes me positively ill!"
"Inconstancy! I'm not inconstant. I never saw a girl I liked better than Stephanie. I'm not likely to. But that doesn't mean that I want to marry her—"
"For shame!"
"Nonsense! Why do you talk about inconstancy? It's a ridiculous word. What is constancy in love? Either an accident or a fortunate state of mind. To promise constancy in love is promising to continue in a state of mind over which your will has no control. It's never an honest promise; it can be only an honest hope. Love comes and goes and no man can stay it, and no man is its prophet. Coming unasked, sometimes undesired, often unwelcome, it goes unbidden, without reason, without logic, as inexorably as it came, governed by laws that no man has ever yet understood—"
"Louis!" exclaimed his sister, bewildered; "what in the world are you lecturing about? Why, to hear you expound the anatomy of love—"
He began to laugh, caught her hands, and kissed her:
"Little goose, that was all impromptu and horribly trite and commonplace. Only it was new to me because I never before took the trouble to consider it. But it's true, even if it is trite. People love or they don't love, and a regard for ethics controls only what they do about it."
"That's another Tupperesque truism, isn't it, dear?"
"Sure thing. Who am I to mock at the Proverbial One when I've never yet evolved anything better?… Listen; you don't want me to marry Stephanie, do you?"
"Yes, I do."
"No, you don't. You think you do—"
"I do, I do, Louis! She's the sweetest, finest, most generous, most suitable—"
"Sure," he said, hastily, "she's all that except 'suitable'—and she isn't that, and I'm not, either. For the love of Mike, Lily, let me go on admiring her, even loving her in a perfectly harmless—"
"Itisn'tharmless to caress a girl—"
"Why—you can't call it caressing—"
"What do you call it?"
"Nothing. We've always been on an intimate footing. She's perfectly unembarrassed about—whatever impulsive—er—fugitive impulses—"
"Youdokiss her!"
"Seldom—very seldom. At moments the conditions happen accidentally to—suggest—some slight demonstration—of a very warm friendship—"
"You positively sicken me! Do you think a nice girl is going to let a man paw her if she doesn't consider him pledged to her?"
"I don't think anything about it. Nice girls have done madder things than their eulogists admit. As a plain matter of fact you can't tell what anybody nice is going to do under theoretical circumstances. And the nicer they are the bigger the gamble—particularly if they're endowed with brains—"
"That'scynicism. You seem to be developing several streaks—"
"Polite blinking of facts never changes them. Conforming to conventional and accepted theories never yet appealed to intelligence. I'm not going to be dishonest with myself; that's one of the streaks I've developed. You ask me if I love Stephanie enough to marry her, and I say I don't. What's the good of blinking it? I don't love anybody enough to marry 'em; but I like a number of girls well enough to spoon with them."
"Thatis disgusting!"
"No, it isn't," he said, with smiling weariness; "it's the unvarnished truth about the average man. Why wink at it? The average man can like a lot of girls enough to spoon and sentimentalise with them. It's the pure accident of circumstance and environment that chooses for him the one he marries. There are myriads of others in the world with whom, under proper circumstances and environment, he'd have been just as happy—often happier. Choice is a mystery, constancy a gamble, discontent the one best bet. It isn't pleasant; it isn't nice fiction and delightful romance; it isn't poetry or precept as it is popularly inculcated; it's the brutal truth about the average man…. And I'm going to find Stephanie. Have you any objection?"
"Louis—I'm terribly disappointed in you—"
"I'm disappointed, too. Until you spoke to me so plainly a few minutes ago I never clearly understood that I couldn't marry Stephanie. When I thought of it at all it seemed a vague and shadowy something, too far away to be really impending—threatening—like death—"
[Illustration: "'Come on, Alice, if you're going to scrub before luncheon.'"]
"Oh!" cried his sister in revolt. "I shall make it my business to see that Stephanie understands you thoroughly before this goes any farther—"
"I wish to heaven you would," he said, so heartily that his sister, exasperated, turned her back and marched away to the nursery.
When he went out to the tennis court he found Stephanie idly batting the balls across the net with Cameron, who, being dummy, had strolled down to gibe at her—a pastime both enjoyed:
"Here comes your Alonzo, fair lady—lightly skipping o'er the green—yes, yes—wearing the panties of his brother-in-law!" He fell into an admiring attitude and contemplated Neville with a simper, his ruddy, prematurely bald head cocked on one side:
"Oh, girls!Ain'the just grand!" he exclaimed. "Honest, Stephanie, your young man has me in the ditch with two blow-outs and the gas afire!"
"Get out of this court," said Neville, hurling a ball at him.
"Isn't he the jealous old thing!" cried Cameron, flouncing away with an affectation of feminine indignation. And presently the tennis balls began to fly, and the little jets of white dust floated away on the June breeze.
They were very evenly matched; they always had been, never asking odds or offering handicaps in anything. It had always been so; at the traps she could break as many clay birds as he could; she rode as well, drove as well; their averages usually balanced. From the beginning—even as children—it had been always give and take and no favour.
And so it was now; sets were even; it was a matter of service.
Luncheon interrupted a drawn game; Stephanie, flushed, smiling, came around to his side of the net to join him on the way to the house:
"How do you keep up your game, Louis? Or do I never improve? It's curious, isn't it, that we are always deadlocked."
Bare-armed, bright hair in charming disorder, she swung along beside him with that quick, buoyant step so characteristic of a spirit ever undaunted, saluting the others on the terrace with high-lifted racquet.
"Nobody won," she said. "Come on, Alice, if you're going to scrub before luncheon. Thank you, Louis; I've had a splendid game—" She stretched out a frank hand to him, going, and the tips of her fingers just brushed his.
His sister gave him a tragic look, which he ignored, and a little later luncheon was on and Cameron garrulous, and Querida his own gentle, expressive, fascinating self, devotedly receptive to any woman who was inclined to talk to him or to listen.
That evening Neville said to his sister: "There's a train at midnight; I don't think I'll stay over—"
"Why?"
"I want to be in town early."
"Why?"
"The early light is the best."
"I thought you'd stopped painting for a while."
"I have, practically. There's one thing I keep on with, in a desultory sort of way—"
"What is it?"
"Oh, nothing of importance—" he hesitated—"that Is, it may be important. I can't be sure, yet."
"Will you tell me what it is?"
"Why, yes. It's a portrait—a study—"
"Of whom, dear?"
"Oh, of nobody you know—"
"Is it a portrait of Valerie West?"
"Yes," he said, carelessly.
There was a silence; in the starlight his shadowy face was not clearly visible to his sister.
"Are you leaving just to continue that portrait?"
"Yes. I'm interested in it."
"Don't go," she said, in a low voice.
"Don't be silly," he returned shortly.
"Dear, I am not silly, but I suspect you are beginning to be. And over a model!"
"Lily, you little idiot," he laughed, exasperated; "what in the world is worrying you?"
"Your taking that girl to the St. Regis. It isn't like you."
"Good Lord! How many girls do you suppose I've taken to various places?"
"Not many," she said, smiling at him. "Your reputation for gallantries is not alarming."
Ho reddened. "You're perfectly right. That sort of thing never appealed to me."
"Then why does it appeal to you now?"
"It doesn't. Can't you understand that this girl is entirely different—"
"Yes, I understand. And that is what worries me."
"It needn't. It's precisely like taking any girl you know and like—"
"Then let me know her—if you mean to decorate-public places with her."
They looked at one another steadily.
"Louis," she said, "this pretty Valerie is not your sister's sort, or you wouldn't hesitate."
"I—hesitate—yes, certainly I do. It's absurd on the face of it. She's too fine a nature to be patronised—too inexperienced in the things of your world—too ignorant of petty conventions and formalities—too free and fearless and confident and independent to appeal to the world you live in."
"Isn't that a rather scornful indictment against my world, dear?"
"No. Your world is all right in its way. You and I were brought up in it. I got out of it. There are other worlds. The one I now inhabit is more interesting to me. It's purely a matter of personal taste, dear. Valerie West inhabits a world that suits her."
"Has she had any choice in the matter?"
"I—yes. She's had the sense and the courage to keep out of the various unsafe planets where electric light furnishes the principal illumination."
"But has she had a chance for choosing a better planet than the one you say she prefers? Your choice was free. Was hers?"
"Look here, Lily! Why on earth are you so significant about a girl you never saw—scarcely ever heard of—"
"Dear, I have not told you everything. Ihaveheard of her—of her charm, her beauty, her apparent innocence—yes, her audacity, her popularity with men…. Such things are not unobserved and unreported between your new planet and mine. Harry Annan is frankly crazy about her, and his sister Alice is scared to death. Mr. Ogilvy, Mr. Burleson, Clive Gail, dozens of men I know are quite mad about her…. If it was she whom you used as model for the figures in the Byzantine decorations, she is divine—the loveliest creature to look at! And I don't care, Louis; I don't care a straw one way or the other except that I know you have never bothered with the more or less Innocently irregular gaieties which attract many men of your age and temperament. And so—when I hear that you are frequently seen—"
"Frequently?"
"Is that St. Regis affair the only one?"
"No, of course not. But, as for my being with her frequently—"
"Well?"
He was silent for a moment, then, looking up with a laugh:
"I like her immensely. Until this moment I didn't realise how much I do like her—how pleasant it is to be with a girl who is absolutely fearless, clever, witty, intelligent, and unspoiled."
"Are there no girls in your own set who conform to this standard?"
"Plenty. But their very environment and conventional traditions kill them—make them a nuisance."
"Louis!"
"That's more plain truth, which no woman likes. Will you tell me what girl in your world, who approaches the qualitative standard set by Valerie West, would go about by day or evening with any man except her brother? Valerie does. What girl would be fearless enough to ignore the cast-iron fetters of her caste? Valerie West is a law unto herself—a law as sweet and good and excellent and as inflexible as any law made by men to restrain women's liberty, arouse them to unhappy self-consciousness and infect them with suspicion. Every one of you are the terrified slaves of custom, and you know it. Most men like it. I don't. I'm no tea drinker, no cruncher of macaroons, no gabbler at receptions, no top-hatted haunter of weddings, no social graduate of the Ecole Turvydrop. And these places—if I want to find companionship in any girl of your world—must frequent. And I won't. And so there you are."
His sister came up to him and placed her arms around his neck.
"Such—a—wrong-headed—illogical—boy," she sighed, kissing him leisurely to punctuate her words. '"If you marry a girl you love you can have all the roaming and unrestrained companionship you want. Did that ever occur to you?"
"At that price," he said, laughing, "I'll do without it."
"Wrong head, handsome head! I'm in despair about you. Why in the world cannot artists conform to the recognised customs of a perfectly pleasant and respectable world? Don't answer me! You'll make me very unhappy…. Now go and talk to Stephanie. The child won't understand your going to-night, but make the best of it to her."
"Good Lord, Lily! I haven't a string tied to me. It doesn't matter toStephanie what I do—why I go or remain. You're all wrong. Stephanie andI understand each other."
"I'll see that she understandsyou" said his sister, sorrowfully.
He laughed and kissed her again, impatient. But why he was impatient he himself did not know. Certainly it was not to find Stephanie, for whom he started to look—and, on the way, glanced at his watch, determined not to miss the train that would bring him into town in time to talk to Valerie West over the telephone.