The Danger Mark. Robert W. Chambers
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no, not exactly that, but as though you had seen many things and had lived some of them——"
She checked herself, lips softly apart; and the memory of what she had heard concerning him returned to her.
Confused, she continued to laugh lightly, adding: "I believe I was afraid of you at first. Ought I to be, still? You know more than I do—you know different kinds of things: your face and voice and manner show it. I feel humble and ignorant in the presence of so distinguished a European artist."
They were laughing together now without a trace of constraint; and she was aware that his interest in her was unfeigned and unmistakably the interest of a man for a woman, that he was looking at her as other men had now begun to look at her, speaking as other men spoke, frankly interested in her as a woman, finding her agreeable to look at and talk to.
In the unawakened depths of her a conviction grew that her old playmate must be classed with other men—man in the abstract—that indefinite and interesting term, hinting of pleasures to come and possibilities unimagined.
"Did you paint pictures all the time you were abroad?" she asked.
"Not every minute. I travelled a lot, went about, was asked to shoot in England and Austria. … I had a good time."
"Didn't you work hard?"
"No. Isn't it disgraceful!"
"But you exhibited in three salons. What were your pictures?"
"I did a portrait of Lady Bylow and her ten children."
"Was it a success?"
He coloured. "They gave me a second medal."
"Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed warmly. "And what were your others?"
"A thing called 'The Witch.' Rather painful."
"What was it?"
"Life size. A young girl arrested in bed. Her frightened beauty is playing the deuce with the people around. I don't know why I did it—the painting of textures—her flesh, and the armour of the Puritan guard, the fur of the black cat—and—well, it was academic and I was young."
"Did they reward you?"
"No."
"What was the third picture?"
"Oh, just a girl," he said carelessly.
"Did they give you a prize for it?"
"Y-yes. Only a mention."
"Was it a portrait?"
"Yes—in a way."
"What was it? Just a girl?"
"Yes."
"Who was she?"
"Oh, just a girl——"
"Was she pretty?"
"Yes. Shall we dance this next——"
"No. Was she a model?"
"She posed——"
Geraldine, lips on the edge of her spread fan, regarded him curiously.
"That is a very romantic life, isn't it?" she murmured.
"What?"
"Yours. I don't know much about it; Kathleen took me to hear 'La Bohême'; and I found Murger's story in the library. I have also read 'Trilby.' Did you—were you—was life like that when you studied in the Latin Quarter?"
He laughed. "Not a bit. I never saw that species of life off the stage."
"Oh, wasn't there any romance?" she asked forlornly.
"Well—as much as you find in New York or anywhere."
"Is there any romance in New York?"
"There is anywhere, isn't there? If only one has the instinct to recognise it and a capacity to comprehend it."
"Of course," she murmured, "there are artists and studios and models and poverty everywhere. … I suppose that without poverty real romance is scarcely possible."
He was still laughing when he answered:
"Financial conditions make no difference. Romance is in one's self—or it is nowhere."
"Is it in—you?" she asked audaciously.
He made no pretence of restraining his mirth.
"Why, I don't know, Geraldine. Lots of people have the capacity for it. Poverty, art, a studio, a velvet jacket, and models are not essentials. … You ask if it is in me. I think it is. I think it exists in anybody who can glorify the commonplace. To make people look with astonished interest at something which has always been too familiar to arrest their attention—only your romancer can accomplish this."
"Please go on," she said as he ended. "I'm listening very hard. You are glorifying commonplaces, you know."
They both laughed; he, a little red, disconcerted, piqued, and withal charmed at her dainty thrust at himself.
"I was talking commonplaces," he admitted, "but how was I to know enough not to? Women are usually soulfully receptive when a painter opens a tin of mouldy axioms. … I didn't realise I was encountering my peer——"
"You may be encountering more than that," she said, the excitement of her success with him flushing her adorably.
"Oh, I've heard how terribly educated you and Scott are. No doubt you can floor me on anything intellectual. See here, Geraldine, it's simply wicked!—you are so soft and pretty, and nobody could suspect you of knowing such a lot and pouncing out on a fellow for trying a few predigested platitudes on you——"
"I don't know anything, Duane! How perfectly horrid of you!"
"Well, you've scared me!"
"I haven't. You're laughing at me. You know well enough that I don't know the things you know."
"What are they, in Heaven's name?"
"Things—experiences—matters that concern life—the world, men, everything!"
"You wouldn't be interesting if you knew such things," he said. She thought there was the same curious hint of indifference, something of listlessness, almost fatigue in the expression of his eyes. And again, apparently apropos of nothing, she found herself thinking of what Kathleen had said about this man.
"I don't understand you," she said, looking at him.
He smiled, and the ghost of a shadow passed from his eyes.
"I was talking at random."
"I don't think you were."
"Why not?"
She shook her head, drawing a long, quiet breath. Silent, lips resting in softly troubled curves, she thought of what Kathleen had said about this man. What had he done to disgrace himself?
A few moments later she rose with decision.
"Come," she said, unconsciously imperious.
He looked across the room and saw Dysart.
"But I haven't begun to tell you—" he began; and she interrupted smilingly:
"I know enough about you for a while; I have learned that you are a very wonderful young man and that I'm inclined to like you. You will come to see me, won't you? … No, I can't remain here another second. I want to go to Kathleen. I want you to ask her to dance, too. … Please don't urge me, Duane. I—this is my first dinner dance—yes, my very first. And I don't intend to sit in corners—I wish to dance; I desire to be happy. I want to see lots and lots of men, not just one. … You don't know all the lonely years I must make up for every minute now, or you wouldn't look at me in such a sulky, bullying way. … Besides—do you think I find you a compensation