The only books the room contained were a well worn Bible and a Human Anatomy. The curtains were twisted back into hideous shapes, some fastened with twine, others with artist’s thumb-tacks, and one was thrown over the cornice in gay disregard.
“You see,” said Collin, “I never should have yielded to Caleb’s plea to have an artistic studio. By degrees, I have managed to move out some stuff and send it over to his lodge. He thrives on such things—color schemes and doing rooms over. But some fine day there will be a bonfire at Parva Sed Apta and, hoop-la, I’ll build a log cabin with nothing but glass for the roof and sit in the midst of the débris to paint the most wonderful pictures of women.”
“Poor women, posing in your log cabin.” Polly pretended to be cross. “Now we must get this room to rights.”
“Never.” He pushed her aside. “I’ll not allow a thing to be straightened. The rest of the house is like a bandbox and I spend as little time there as I can. But here is where I live.”
Fencer lay down to roll over an etching as if emphasizing the statement.
“Here,” corrected Collin, “is where _we_ live.”
“Show Thurley Bliss’s portrait and then we’ll do up the dishes and cook our dinner—a fine sort of host you are.”
“Cook had been meditating an elopement some time—a gentleman who works in a roundhouse, I believe, has been carrying the wedding ring in his pocket for days. The boy always envied my suits—and as he was offered more wages to go to Bermuda, I presume he thought the suits a bonus for having endured an artistic atmosphere ... oh, well, I’ll call up the agency to-morrow and order a fresh supply; they’ll stay a week anyhow and that takes me through the dinner I’m supposed to give on Wednesday—well, Thurley, are you much amused?”
They were walking down the hall into his drawing-room, spick and span by contrast, done in the coolest of grays with long, glimmering curtains of silver damask, the furniture of polished magnolia wood with a yellow-topped Italian marble console and many-branched silver candlesticks. The only ornament in the room was Hobart’s portrait; it stood on a great easel on a platform, curtains halfway veiling it.
Thurley’s heart began an annoying pit-a-pat as she sought the correct light in which to view it. Polly and Collin each taking a curtain threw them back together and for a long instant Thurley was silent as she looked with eyes, as betraying of her love as Polly’s had been, at the wonderful face of a man. It was a man who had recently left happy youth behind because he had discovered it to be disillusioning and had taken up manhood with no disgruntled attitude of resentment nor aggressive determination to win by trickery but with ideals—ideals impossible to defeat but hidden so safely from the world at large that they were incapable of practical expression. The lips smiled of love and sighed for regret and prayed for all the universe—there was that much painted into the picture. The eyes were shining, gray eyes showing the art of putting a bad ending to the purpose of becoming a good and fresh beginning. He was one who would try to practise some ancient but forgotten unity of the human race. As Thurley stared at the strange face with its rare smile of understanding, she recalled the Scotch legend of the Wells of Peace which an old circus clown had told her of years ago.