第17章

That night Larry slept on a cot set up in Hunt's studio. Hunt had made the proposition that Larry consider the studio his headquarters for the present, and Larry had accepted. Of course the cot and the rough-and-ready furnishings of the studio were grotesquely short of the luxury of those sunny days when Larry had had plenty of easy money and had been free to gratify his taste for the best of everything; but the quarters were infinitely more luxurious and comfortable than his more recent three-by-seven room at Sing Sing with its damp and chilly stone walls.

There were many reasons why Larry was appealed to by the idea of making his home for the present in this old house in this dingy, unexciting, unromantic street. He was drawn toward this bluff, outspoken, autocratic painter, and was curious about him. And then the way his grandmother had spoken, the gleam in her old eyes, had stirred an affection for her that he had never before felt. And then there was Maggie, with her startlingly new dusky beauty, her admiration of him that had so swiftly altered to defiance, her challenge to a duel of purposes.

Yes, for the present, this dingy old house in this dingy old street was just the place he preferred to be.

It was not the part of wisdom to start forth on the beginning of his new career in his shapeless prison shoddy; so the next day Larry pottered about the studio, acting as maid-of-all-work, while the clothes in his trunk which had been stored with the Duchess were being sponged and pressed by the little tailor down the street, and while a laundress, driven by the Duchess, was preparing the rest of his outfit for his debut. In his capacity of maid, with a basket on his arm, he went out into the little street, where in his shabby clothes he was recognized by none and leaned for a time against the mongrel, underfed tree that was hesitatingly greeting the spring with a few half-hearted leaves. He bathed himself in the warm sun which seemed over-glorious for so mean a street; he filled his lungs with the tangy May air; yes, it was wonderful to be free again!

Then he strolled about the street on his business of marketing. It amused him to be buying three pounds of potatoes and a pound of chopped meat and a package of macaroni, and to be counting Hunt's pennies--remembering those days when he had been a personage to head waiters, and had had his table reserved, and with a careless Midas's gesture had left a dollar, or five, or twenty, for the waiter's tip.

When he climbed back into the studio he watched Hunt slashing about with his paint. Hunt growled and roared at him, and kidded him; and Larry came back at him with the same kind of verbal horseplay, after the fashion of men. Presently a relaxation, if not actual friendship, began to develop in their attitude toward each other.

"Tell you what," Larry remarked, standing with legs wide apart gazing at the picture of the Italian mother throned on the curb nursing her child, "if I were dolled up all proper, I bet I could take some of this stuff out and sell it for real dough."

"Huh, nobody wants that stuff!" snorted Hunt. "It's too good. Sell it!

You're off your bean, young fellow!"

"I can sell anything, my bucko," Larry returned evenly. "All I need is a man who has plenty of money and a moderate willingness to listen.

I've sold pictures of an oil derrick on a stock certificate, exact value nothing at all, for a masterpiece's price--so I guess I could sell a real picture."

"Aw, you shut up!"

"The real trouble with you," commented Larry, "is that, though you can paint, as a business man, as a promoter of your own stock, the suckling infant in that picture is a J. Pierpont Morgan of multiplied capacity compared to--"

"Stop making that noise like a damned fool!"

This amiable pastime of throwing stones at each other was just then interrupted by the entrance of Maggie for an appointed sitting, before going to her business of carrying a tray of cigarettes about the Ritzmore. She gave Hunt a pleasant "good-morning," the pleasantness purposely stressed in order to make more emphatic her curt nod to Larry and the cold hostility of her eye. During the hour she posed, Larry, moving leisurely about his kitchen duties, addressed her several times, but no remark got a word from her in response. He took his rebuffs smilingly, which irritated her all the more.

"Maggie, I'll get my real clothes late this afternoon; how about my dropping in at the Ritzmore for a cup of tea, and letting me buy some cigarettes and talk to you when you're not busy?" he inquired when Hunt had finished with her.

"You may buy cigarettes, but you'll get no talk!" she snapped, and head high and dark eyes flashing contempt, she swept past him.

Hunt watched her out. As the door slammed behind her, he remarked dryly, his eyes searching Larry keenly:

"Our young queen doesn't seem wildly enthusiastic about you or your programme."

"She certainly is not."

"Don't let that worry you, young fellow. That's a common trait of her whole tribe; women simply cannot believe in a man!"

There was an emphasis and a cynicism in this last remark which caused Larry to regard the painter searchingly. "You seem to know what it is.

Don't mean to butt in, Hunt, if there are any trespassing signs up--but there's a woman in your case?"

"Of course there is--there's always a woman; that's another reason I'm here," Hunt answered. "She didn't believe in me--didn't believe I could paint--didn't believe in the things I wanted to do--so I just picked up my playthings and walked out of her existence."

"Wife?" queried Larry.

"Thank God, no!" exclaimed Hunt emphatically. "No--'I thank whatever gods there be, I am the captain of my soul!' Oh, she's all right--altogether too good for me," he added. "Here, try this tobacco."