Part 55 (2/2)
”I would to G.o.d that you had been spared the knowledge,” he said.
She shook her head.
”No,” she responded. ”Not that--not that.”
She swayed, and he caught her in his arms. For an instant he held her--not in pa.s.sion, but with a gentleness that was almost cold. Then he released her, and she moved away.
”Good-bye.”
”Good-bye.”
He followed her into the hall and opened the door. An icy draught blew past him.
”Wait a moment,” he said. He took an umbrella from the rack, and, raising it, held it over her until she entered the carriage.
”I hope you will not take cold,” he said, as he closed the door.
Then he went back into his study and walked the floor until dawn.
CHAPTER XII
One afternoon during the third week in January, Father Algarcife went to the studio of Claude Nevins, and found the artist smoking a moody pipe over a brandy-and-soda. His brush and palette lay upon the floor.
”How are you?” inquired Father Algarcife, with attempted lightness; ”and what are you doing?”
Nevins looked up gloomily, blowing a wreath of gray smoke towards the skylight.
”Enjoying life,” he responded.
The other laughed.
”It doesn't look exactly like enjoyment,” he returned. ”From a casual view, I should call it a condition of boredom.”
He had aged ten years in the last fortnight, and his eyes had the s.h.i.+fting look of a man who flees an inward fear.
Nevins regarded him unsmilingly.
”Oh, I like it,” he answered, lifting his gla.s.s. ”Come and join me. I tell you I'd rather be drunk to-day than be President to-morrow.”
”What's the matter?”
”Oh, nothing. I haven't done a d.a.m.ned stroke for a week; that's all. I am tired of painting people's portraits.”
”Nonsense. Ten years ago you went on a spree because there were no portraits to paint.”
”Yes,” Nevins admitted, ”history repeats itself--with variations. The truth is, Anthony, I can't work.”
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