Glasgow Ellen Anderson Gholson
Phases of an Inferior Planet
CHAPTER VII
The morning papers reported that the Reverend Anthony Algarcife had been struck by a cab while crossing Broadway, and as he left the breakfast-table Mrs. Ryder's carriage appeared at his door, quickly followed by that of Miss Vernish.
By ten o'clock the rectory was besieged and bunches of flowers, with cards attached, were scattered about the hall. Dr. Salvers, coming in a little later, stumbled over a pile of roses, and recovered himself, laughing.
"Looks as if they mean to bury you," he remarked. "But how are you feeling? Of course, I knew it was nothing serious or I should have heard."
Father Algarcife rose impatiently from his chair.
"Of course," he returned. "But all this fuss is sufficient to drive a man mad. Yes, Agnes," to the maid who entered with a tray of carnations and a solicitous inquiry as to his health. "Say I am perfectly well – and please have all these flowers sent to the hospital at once. No, I don't care for any on my desk. I dislike the perfume." Then he turned to Salvers. "I am going out to escape it," he said. "Will you walk with me to the church?"
"With pleasure," responded the doctor, cheerfully; and he added: "You will find the church a poor protection, I fancy."
As they left the rectory they met Claude Nevins upon the sidewalk.
"I wanted to assure myself that it was not a serious accident," he said. "Glad to see you out."
Father Algarcife frowned.
"If I hear another word of this affair," he replied, irritably, "I shall feel tempted to regret that there is not some cause for the alarm."
"And you are quite well?"
"Perfectly."
"By the way, I didn't know that you felt enough interest in the elections to induce you to parade the streets on their account."
"Oh, it was the doctor's fault. He got me into the medley, and then deserted because he found it too democratic."
"It is democracy turned upsidedown that I object to," remarked Salvers. "There seems a lack of decency about it – as if we were to awake some morning to find the statue of Liberty on its head, with its legs in the air. I believe in the old conservative goddess of our fathers – Freedom shackled by the chains of respectability."
"So did Father Algarcife once," said Nevins. "He had an oration entitled 'The Jeffersonian Principles' which he used to deliver before the mirror when he thought I was asleep."
"I believe in it still," interrupted Father Algarcife, "but I no longer deliver orations. Greater wisdom has made me silent. Well, I suppose the result of last night was hardly a surprise."
"Hardly," responded Nevins. "What can one expect when everybody who knows the value of an office is running for it, and everybody who doesn't is blowing horns about the runners. But I won't keep you. Good-day."
"Good-day."
Nevins turned back.
"By the way," he said to Father Algarcife, "I wish you would drop in and look at that portrait the first chance you have. I am waiting for your criticism."
"Very well. Congratulate Ardly for me."
And they separated, Salvers motioning to his coachman to follow him to the church.
Upon going inside, Father Algarcife found his principal assistant, a young fellow with a fair, fresh face, like a girl's, and a high forehead, surmounted by waves of flaxen hair. His name was Ellerslie, and his devotional sincerity was covered by a shy and nervous manner.
He greeted the elder priest with a furtive deprecation, the result of an innate humility of character.
"I went by the rectory as soon as I had seen the morning papers," he said. "Thank God you escaped unhurt!"
The irritation with which Father Algarcife had replied to Nevins's solicitude did not appear now.
"I hope you were not troubled by the report," he answered. "There was absolutely nothing in it except that I was struck by a vehicle and stunned slightly. But the exaggerated accounts have caused me a great deal of annoyance. By the way, John," and his face softened, "I have not told you how much I liked your last sermon."
The other flushed and shook his head. "They fall so far short," he returned, and his voice trembled. "I know now that I shall never be able to speak. When I face the people there is so much that I want to say that I grow dumb. My feeling is so strong that my words are weak."
"Time may change that."
"No," said Ellerslie; "but if I may listen to you I am content. I will serve God in humble ways. It is the service that I love, after all, and not the glory."
"Yes, yes," responded Father Algarcife, gently.
He went into the sacristy, where he sat for a few moments in reverie, his head resting upon his hand. Then he rose and shook himself free of the thought which haunted him.
For several weeks after this he paid no calls except among his poor. The houses of his richer parishioners he appeared to shun, and his days were spent in active work in the mission districts. At all hours his calm black figure and virile face might be seen passing in and out of the grimy tenements or along the narrow streets. He had opened, in connection with his mission-house, a lodging for waifs, and it was his custom to spend several evenings of the week among its inmates. The house had been founded by funds which, until his call to the church, had been expended in Asiatic missions, but which, before his indomitable opposition, had been withdrawn. As the work went on it became of special interest to him, and a good half of his personal income went yearly to its support.
"It is not a charity," he had once said to Salvers. "I disapprove of such charities. It is merely a house where lodgings are let in as business-like a manner as they are around the corner, for five cents a spot; only our lodgings are better, and there is a bath thrown in."
"And a dinner as well," Salvers had answered, "to say nothing of breakfast and a bed to one's self. By the way, is your system of serving newsboys and boot-blacks on credit successful?"
Father Algarcife smiled.
"I have found it so," he replied; "but, you know, our terms are long, and we give good measure for the money."
It was in this work that he was absorbing himself, when, one day in early December, he received a note from Mrs. Ryder:
"I have secured a box at the opera for Thursday night," (she wrote), "that I might beg you to hear Madame Cambria, who sings Ortrude in 'Lohengrin.' Her contralto is superb, and I wish to engage her for our Christmas services, but I hesitate to do so until I have had your verdict upon her voice. This is a new charitable appeal, and one which I trust you will not refuse.
"Believe me to be,"Always sincerely yours,"Florence van Horne Ryder.
"The De Reszkes sing also."
He sent an acceptance, and the following day received an urgent request that he should dine quietly with Mr. Ryder and herself on Thursday evening. To this he consented, after some hesitation; and when the evening came he presented himself, to find Mrs. Ryder awaiting him with the pretty, vivacious young woman of the dinner-party, who was a guest in the house.
Mrs. Ryder crossed the room, with her large white hand outstretched, her satin gown rustling as she moved, and the lamplight shimmering over her massive shoulders in their setting of old lace. The vivacious young woman, whose name was Darcy, greeted him with a smile which seemed to blend in a flash of brightness her black eyes and white teeth.
"Mr. Ryder is a little late," his wife explained, "but he will not delay us long." And she passed to the subject of the Christmas services and the contralto she wished to secure.
While she was speaking, Ryder came in with his usual cordial pleasantries. He was looking fresh and a little flushed, as if he had just left a Turkish bath, and was dressed with an immaculateness of detail which carried a suggestion of careful polish. His sensitive skin, beneath which the purplish flush rose, was as fine as a child's, and his round, smooth hands had a suffusion of pink in the palms.
In a moment dinner was served, and they went into the dining-room. Ryder was easy and affable. He talked pleasantly about the events of the past few weeks, describing as if for the hundredth time the success of the Horse Show, and stating good-natured objections to the awards of the judges.
"It is a farce," he said – "a mere farce. They don't recognize the best horse-flesh when they see it." Then he smiled at his wife. "But who can blame them? It was really a puzzle to decide which were the most worth looking at, the horses or the women. It is hard to say where the blue ribbon belonged. Ah, father, you miss a great deal by being a saint."
Miss Darcy interrupted him with a pretty protest. "I am sure a saint may look at a horse," she said, "and a woman." And she added: "I have always forgotten to ask you who the lady in violet and silver-fox was who sat in Mr. Buisson's box? I did not recognize her."
Ryder's eyes narrowed slightly, but he answered easily, "Oh, that was Mrs. Gore, I believe."
Miss Darcy flashed a smile.
"The Englishwoman I have heard so much about? Why, I thought she was called a beauty!"
Ryder laughed.
"She is a beauty when you know her," he said, "or, rather, you get the idea that she is. But she isn't English, you know. She married an Englishman."
Then he changed the subject and drew Father Algarcife into a discussion of church decorations.
When dinner was over, Mrs. Ryder's maid appeared, bearing the opera-wraps, and the two women trailed down the steps and into the carriage. When Father Algarcife had stepped inside, Ryder closed the door and made his excuses.
"I'll look in a little later," he said; "but if Mr. Nevins finds you you won't need me, and a whole evening of it tires my nerves."
Then he lighted a cigar and strolled off leisurely, while the carriage started.
When they entered the opera-house the curtain had risen, and the tenor was singing his farewell to the swan.
As Father Algarcife seated himself in the shadow of the box and looked over Mrs. Ryder's superb shoulders at the stage and the glittering foot-lights, he felt a quick impulse to rush away from it all. He hated the noise and the heat and the glare. The heavy atmosphere seemed oppressive and unnatural, and the women, sparkling brilliantly in the tiers of boxes, looked like beautiful exotics, fragrant with the perishable bloom of a hot-house. It was with a sensation of relief that he recalled the dull mission in the slums, where he had spent the morning.
On the stage, Elsa had cast herself into the arms of Lohengrin, and the voice of love dominant was translated into song. The music filled the house with a throbbing ecstasy – an ecstasy that had captured in its notes the joys of all the senses – the light to the eye of a spring morning, the perfume to the nostrils of fresh meadows, the warmth to the touch of falling sunshine. It was the voice of love ethereal – of love triumphant over flesh, of love holding to its breast the phantom of its dreams. It was the old, ever-young voice of the human heart panting for the possession of its vision – the vision realized in the land of legends.
The curtain was rung down, and in a moment Nevins came in and they fell to talking. They spoke of the tenor, of the fact that the prima donna's voice had strengthened, and of Madame Cambria, the contralto, who was a little hoarse. Then they spoke of the people in the boxes and of the absence of several whose names they mentioned.
Father Algarcife was silent, and he only aroused himself to attention when Miss Darcy, lowering her opera-glass, turned to Nevins inquiringly.
"Do tell me if that is Mrs. Gore across from us – the one in green and violets?"
Nevins replied constrainedly. "Yes," he said; "I think so. The other is Miss Ramsey, I believe – a friend who lives with her."
Miss Darcy smiled.
"Why, I thought she lived alone," she returned; "but I have heard so many odd things about her that I may be mistaken in this one. She is evidently the kind of person that nobody possesses any positive information about."
"Perhaps it is as well," observed Mrs. Ryder, stiffly. "It is better to know too little on such subjects than too much."
Nevins was writhing in his chair, his mouth half open, when Father Algarcife spoke.
"In this case," he said, and his voice sounded cold and firm, "what is not known seems to be incorrectly surmised. I knew Mrs. Gore – before – before her marriage. She is a Southerner."
Mrs. Ryder looked up.
"Yes?" she interrogated, as he paused.
"And, although I cannot vouch for her discretion, I can for her innate purity of character."
Mrs. Ryder flushed, and spoke with a beautiful contrition in her eyes.
"I was wrong," she said, "to trust rumor. It makes me ashamed of myself – of my lack of generosity."
The curtain rose, and Father Algarcife turned to the stage. But he did not see it. The figures were blurred before his eyes and the glare tortured him. Across the circle of space he knew that Mariana was sitting, her head upraised, her cheek resting upon her hand, her face in the shadow. He could almost see her eyes growing rich and soft like green velvet.
Then, as the voice of the soprano rang out, he started slightly. Beneath the song of love he heard the cry of ambition – a cry that said:
"I would give half my life for this – to sing with Alvary."
Whence the words came he did not know. He had no memory of them in time or place, but they struggled in the throat of the soprano and filled the air.
He turned and looked at her as she sat across from him, her cheek resting in her hand against a blaze of diamonds. She looked white, he thought, and wistful and unsatisfied. Then a fierce joy took possession of him – a joy akin to the gloating of a savage cruelty. She had failed. Yes, in spite of the brocade of her gown, in spite of the diamonds in her hair, in spite of the homage in the eyes of men that followed her – she had failed.
The blood rushed into his temples, and he felt it beating in his pulses. He was glad – glad that she was unsatisfied – glad of the struggle and of the failure – glad of the slow torture of famished aspirations.
And from the throat of the soprano the words rang heavy with throbs of unfulfilment:
"I would give half my life for this – to sing with Alvary."
Then as he looked at her she stirred restlessly, and their eyes met. It was a blank look, such as two strangers might have interchanged, but suddenly he remembered the night they came together and sat in the fifth gallery. A dozen details of that evening flickered in his memory and reddened into life. He remembered the splendors of her eyes, the thrill in her voice, the nervous tremor of her hands. He remembered the violets in her bonnet, created from nothing after a chapter of Mill – and the worn gloves with the stains inside, which benzine had not taken away. He remembered her faintness when the opera was over, and the grocery-shop across from The Gotham, where they had bought ale and crackers. He saw her figure as she sat on the hearth-rug in her white gown, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders, her eyes drowsy with sleep. He saw her hands – bare then of jewels – as she unfastened the parcels, and heard her laugh as he drew the cork and the ale spilled upon the crackers. Good God! He had forgotten these things eight years ago.
Again he looked across at her and their eyes met. He turned to the stage and listened to the faltering of love as it struggled with doubt. The music had changed. It had deepened in color and a new note had throbbed into it – a note of flesh that weighed upon spirit – of disbelief that shadowed faith. The ideal was singing the old lesson of the real found wanting – of passion tarnished by the touch of clay. The ecstasy had fled. Love was not satisfied with itself. It craved knowledge, and the vision beautiful was fading before the eyes of earth. It was the song of the eternal vanquishment of love by distrust, of the eternal failure of faith.
When the curtain fell Ryder came into the box. He was looking depressed, and lines of irritation had gathered about his mouth. He pulled his fair mustache nervously. His wife rose and looked at him with a frank smile in her eyes.
"I have been watching Mrs. Gore," she said, "and she is very lovely. Will you take me to her box for a moment?"
Nevins looked up with quick gratitude, and Ryder grew radiant. He smiled on his wife in affectionate admiration.
"Of course I will," he answered, and as they left the box he added: "You are magnificent. There is not a woman in town with your neck and arms."
She smiled faintly, unmoved by his words. She had learned long since that he still admired though he no longer desired her – and desire was the loadstar of his life.
Father Algarcife, looking at the box across from him, saw Mariana start suddenly and rise with an impulsive welcome as Mrs. Ryder entered. He could see the light on her face, and the frank pleasure of her greeting. Then, as the two women stood together, he saw Ryder glance from one to the other with his pleasant smile and turn to speak to Miss Ramsey. He heard Nevins breathing behind him, and he was conscious of a strange feeling of irritation against him. Why should he, who was at enmity with no man, cherish that curious dislike for one who was his friend?
"Mrs. Ryder is a creature to be adored," said Nevins to Miss Darcy. "She is Isis incarnate."
Miss Darcy responded with her flashing smile. "And Mrs. Gore's divinity?"
Nevins gave an embarrassed laugh.
"Oh, I am not sure that she is a goddess at all," he answered. "She is merely a woman."
CHAPTER VIII
As Mariana entered her house after the opera was over she unwound the lace scarf from her head, letting it trail like a silvery serpent on the floor behind her. Then she unfastened her long cloak, and threw it on a chair in the drawing-room.
"The fire is out," she said, looking at the ashes in the grate, "and I am cold – cold."
"Shall I start it?" asked Miss Ramsey, a little timidly, as she tugged awkwardly at her gloves, embarrassed by their length.
Mariana laughed absently.
"Start it? Why should you?" she questioned. "There are servants – or there ought to be – but no, I'll go up-stairs."
She went into the hall, and Miss Ramsey followed her. On the second landing they entered a large room, the floor of which was spread with white fur rugs, warmed by the reddish lights and shadows from an open fire.
Mariana crossed to the fire, and, drawing off her gloves, held her hands to the flames. There was a strained look in her eyes, as if she had not awaked to her surroundings.
Miss Ramsey raised the wick of the lamp, yawned behind her hand, and came to where Mariana was standing.
"Are you tired?" she asked. "The opera was very long."
Mariana started and looked at her.
"You poor little thing," she said. "It half killed you. No, don't go. Sit down for a moment. I want to talk to you."
As she spoke she unfastened her gown, slipped it off, and threw it across a chair. Then she put on a wrapper of white flannel, and, seating herself on the rug before the fire, loosened her heavy hair.
"I want to talk," she repeated.
Miss Ramsey drew a chair beside her and sat down. She laid her hand on Mariana's hair.
"Shall I braid it?" she asked.
Mariana shook her head.
"I don't want you to wait on me," she replied, half pettishly. "Janet can do that. I want you to love me."
Miss Ramsey smiled.
"How shall I begin?" she inquired.
But Mariana was silent, staring moodily into the fire, where the ruddy coals assumed sharp and bizarre designs. As the light flickered over her face it brought out the changes in her eyes and the warmth of her mouth.
"Do you see that head in the fire?" she asked, suddenly. "It is the head of the Sphinx – and before it there is a burning desert – do you see?"
Then she laid her head in Miss Ramsey's lap, and her voice sounded faint and far off.
"I want to be told that I am good," she said; "that I have been good all my life – that I am a saint, like that splendid creature who came to speak to me to-night. Am I as good as she?"
"I do not know her," responded Miss Ramsey.
Mariana raised her eyes to her face.
"Am I like I used to be – at The Gotham?"
Miss Ramsey smiled.
"You are older."
"And wiser?"
"I don't think you will ever be wise, my dear."
"I am afraid not," said Mariana. "I am wedded to folly." Then she sighed softly. "Am I better?" she asked.
"You are very good to me."
"Am I better – to look at?"
Miss Ramsey shook her head gently.
"Dress makes a good deal of difference," she returned, presently.
Mariana rose and kissed her good-night.
"Sleep well," she said. "And don't make your bed in the morning – please don't. Yes, I am very sleepy."
But when the door had closed after Miss Ramsey she sat looking into the grate until the crimson coals had waned to livid ashes. The room grew cold and the shadows deepened in the folds of the curtains at the windows, which were stirred by a faint draught. From the street below an occasional noise rose, vague, unseizable – the roll of a wagon or the tramp of a passer-by upon the sidewalk. In a distant room a clock struck twice, with a soft whirring sound. From her gown, thrown across the back of a chair, the bruised violets diffused a fading sweetness. The embers waned one by one, and the visions in the fire grew spectral, like living faces which the warm blood forsakes. As the last one died she rose and went to bed.
When she awoke in the morning it was to find Miss Ramsey standing beside her, holding her breakfast-tray.
"You were sleeping very soundly," she said. "Did you have a good night?"
"Oh yes," Mariana responded. She yawned and turned upon the pillows, stretching her arms above her head. The lace on her sleeves fell away from her bare elbows.
"I slept very soundly, and I am sleepy still. The mere fact of getting up in the morning makes life a failure. Until I have had my bath I am always a pessimist."
She sat up drowsily, running her hands through her hair. Then she turned to her tea, which was placed on a table beside her.
"There are your violets also," remarked Miss Ramsey, pointing to a couple of florist's boxes; and, as an afterthought, she added: "Men are odd creatures."
Mariana laughed.
"Oh, they imagine that they are laying up treasures on earth," she answered, stirring her tea. "And they have overlooked the fact that moths corrupt. I shall advise them to transfer their attentions to Heaven. Who was it that called me 'unpropitious'?"
"I don't like it," said Miss Ramsey. "I may be old-fashioned, but I don't approve of married men living as if they had no responsibilities."
"Nor do I," agreed Mariana. "It bores one awfully."
"And it makes people say unkind things of you, my dear. It is so hard for them to draw the distinction between imprudence and infamy."
"Yes," admitted Mariana, pushing her cup aside. "I suppose it is – and I suppose I am imprudent."
"I wish you would try to be a little more careful."
Mariana caught her hand and pulled her down on the bed beside her.
"What a treasure you are!" she said. "Do you know you are the one woman I absolutely believe in? You might have made a fortune by reporting scandals about me, and you haven't done so."
The maid brought in several letters, and Mariana took them from her and broke the seals carelessly.
"Mr. Gore is coming forward again," she remarked, tossing an open sheet on the counterpane. "You knew he did not like that worshipful old uncle of his leaving me his property. He says it has made me too independent. Well, it has made me independent of him, for which Heaven be praised. When I heard of it I repeated the Thirty-nine Articles, fifty Hail Mary's, and as much of the Shorter Catechism as I could think of. I feel so thankful."
"I am sorry for that, Mariana."
"You wouldn't be if you knew him. You are too economical to squander emotions."
"But it does seem rather hard on him," said Miss Ramsey.
Mariana laughed.
"It would have been worse on me had I stayed with him," she responded. "And now, if Janet has my bath ready, I think I'll get up."
An hour later she came down-stairs in her hat and coat, and went for her morning walk in the park. When she returned she ordered the carriage, and went shopping, accompanied by Miss Ramsey.
"You are to have a heliotrope satin," Mariana declared, in a burst of generosity, "and I am to have one that is all amber and dull gold."
As she stood in the centre of the costumer's show-room, surveying the lustrous folds of heliotrope and amber, her eyes shone with pleasure. Miss Ramsey protested faintly.
"My dear Mariana, I beg of you," she said, "leave me the black silk. Colors confuse me."
But Mariana was obdurate.
"No," she replied, "I have selected it. We will go to the milliner's."
They drove to the milliner's, where they remained for a couple of hours – Mariana finding difficulty in deciding upon a bonnet. When the choice was made Miss Ramsey was threatened with hysteria, and they went home.
"I quite forgot," said Mariana, as they entered the house, a small brown-stone one on Fifty-seventh Street, which she had leased – "I quite forgot that I was to have sat for Mr. Nevins this morning. How provoking I am! But it is too late now, and, besides, I am looking a fright. My dear, good Miss Ramsey, I do wish you would express yourself more about the purchases I make."
"I did express myself," protested Miss Ramsey, looking jaded and harassed. "I expressed myself against that heliotrope satin, but it did no good."
"But that was absurd," responded Mariana. "I do hope luncheon is ready," and she went up-stairs to change her dress.
After luncheon Mrs. Ryder called, and Mariana went in to see her, a flush of pleasure suffusing her face.
"How very kind of you!" she said, taking the proffered hand, and there was a thrill of gratitude in her voice. They seated themselves near together and talked of mutual acquaintances, principally men, of the weather, and of the opera the evening before – all with the flippancy with which society veils the primordial network of veins coursing beneath its bloodless surface. Then, when Mrs. Ryder rose to go, she hesitated an instant, looking down at the smaller woman.
"I should like to be your friend," she said at last. "Will you let me?"
Mariana raised her eyes.
"I need them," she answered; and then she added, impulsively: "Do you know all that has been said of me – all?"
Mrs. Ryder drew herself up with a slow, gracious movement.
"But it is not true," she said.
"No, it is not true," repeated Mariana.
The other smiled and held out her hand.
"I want you to come to luncheon with me," she said. "I shall be alone to-morrow. Will you come?"
"Yes," Mariana responded, "to-morrow."
And after Mrs. Ryder had gone she sat down at her desk and wrote a note.
"You must not talk to me again as you did last evening," it said. "I have told you so before, but I may not have seemed in earnest. Now I am in earnest, and you must not – you shall not do it. I know it has been a great deal my fault, and I am sorry for it. Indeed, you must believe that I did not think of its coming to this."
Then she sealed it and gave it to the servant to mail, after which she went up-stairs and talked to Miss Ramsey until dinner.
The next day she went to Mrs. Ryder's, and they sat down to luncheon at a small round table and talked as women talk in whom feeling is predominant over thought, and to whom life represents a rhythmic series of emotions rather than waves of mental evolution.
They spoke in low, almost affectionate voices, conscious of one of those sudden outreaches of sympathy to which women are subject. When luncheon was over they went up to the nursery, and Mariana knelt upon the floor and romped with the child, who pulled her loosened hair, uttering shrill shrieks of delight. At last she rose hurriedly, and Mrs. Ryder saw that a tear trembled on her lashes.
The elder woman's heart expanded.
"You have had a child?" she asked, softly.
"Yes."
"And lost it?"
"Yes, I lost it."
Mrs. Ryder's eyes grew soft.
"I am so sorry for you," she said. The tear on Mariana's lashes fell upon her hand.
"It was eight years ago," she said. "That is a long time, but I suppose one never entirely forgets."
"No," answered the other, "one never forgets."
She stooped suddenly, and, lifting her child, kissed it passionately.
Several mornings after this Mariana's carriage stopped before Nevins's studio, and Mariana got out and ascended the long flight of stairs. In response to the fall of the brass knocker, the door was opened and Nevins greeted her reproachfully. "Are you aware," he demanded, gravely, "that there has been sufficient time for the appearance of a wrinkle since your last sitting?"
"Portraits don't have wrinkles," returned Mariana, cheerfully, entering and unfastening her coat; "nor do I."
She removed her hat and gave an impatient little fluff to her hair.
"Do I look well?" she asked.
"Were you ever otherwise to me?" rejoined Nevins, in impassioned protest.
Mariana turned from him with a slight shrug of her shoulders.
"For the last week," she said, "I have had a horrible cold. It made my eyes red and my nose also. That is why I stayed away."
"And plunged me into a seven days' despair – for a cold."
"Oh, but such a cold!"
She seated herself on a low chair between two large curtained easels. Then she rose to examine the portrait.
"I suppose the touching-up makes a great deal of difference," she remarked.
"A great deal," assented Nevins; "but don't you like it?"
She hesitated, her head first on one side, then on the other.
"Oh yes," she said, "but I should like it to be ideal, you know."
"Nonsense! You don't need to be idealized. To idealize means to wipe out character with turpentine and put in inanity with a paint-brush." Then he added: "Sit down just as you are, and turn your head towards the purple curtain on that easel. A little farther – there. I must have that expression."
He picked up his brush and worked steadily for twenty minutes. Then he frowned.
"You have suffered twelve changes of expression within the last sixty seconds," he said. "What are you thinking of?"
