"I'll lay you the cigars that I beat you."
"You're on!"
Harrigan put the book in his pocket, and the two of them made for the
upper path, not, however, without waving a friendly adieu to Celeste, who
was watching them with much curiosity.
For a moment Nora became visible in the window. Her expression did not
signify that the sight of the men together pleased her. On the contrary,
her eyes burned and her brow was ruffled by several wrinkles which
threatened to become permanent if the condition of affairs continued to
remain as it was. To her the calm placidity of the man was nothing less
than monumental impudence. How she hated him; how bitterly, how intensely
she hated him! She withdrew from the window without having been seen.
"Did you ever see two finer specimens of man?" Celeste asked of Abbott.
"What? Who?" mumbled Abbott, whose forehead was puckered with impatience.
"Oh, those two? They are well set up. But what the deuce is the matter
with this foreground?" taking the brushes from his teeth. "I've been
hammering away at it for a week, and it does not get there yet."
Celeste rose and laid aside her work. She stood behind him and studied the
picture through half-closed critical eyes. "You have painted it over too
many times." Then she looked down at the shapely head. Ah, the longing to
put her hands upon it, to run her fingers through the tousled hair, to
touch it with her lips! But no! "Perhaps you are tired; perhaps you have
worked too hard. Why not put aside your brushes for a week?"
"I've a good mind to chuck it into the lake. I simply can't paint any
more." He flung down the brushes. "I'm a fool, Celeste, a fool. I'm crying
for the moon, that's what the matter is. What's the use of beating about
the bush? You know as well as I do that it's Nora."
Her heart contracted, and for a little while she could not see him
clearly.
"But what earthly chance have I?" he went on, innocently but ruthlessly.
"No one can help loving Nora."
"No," in a small voice.
"It's all rot, this talk about affinities. There's always some poor devil
left outside. But who can help loving Nora?" he repeated.
"Who indeed!"
"And there's not the least chance in the world for me."
"You never can tell until you put it to the test."
"Do you think I have a chance? Is it possible that Nora may care a little
for me?" He turned his head toward her eagerly.
"Who knows?" She wanted him to have it over with, to learn the truth that
to Nora Harrigan he would never be more than an amiable comrade. He would
then have none to turn to but her. What mattered it if her own heart ached
so she might soothe the hurt in his? She laid a hand upon his shoulder, so
lightly that he was only dimly conscious of the contact.