Between Friends | Page 4

role merely because he
had become accustomed to it.
Disaster had cast him for a part. For a long while he had been that part.
Now he was still playing it from sheer force of habit. His tragedy had
really become only the shadow of a memory. Already he had emerged
from that shadow into the everyday outer world. But he had forgotten
that he still wore a somber makeup and costume which in the sunshine
might appear grotesque. No wonder the world thought him funny.

Glancing up from a perplexed and chagrined meditation he caught her
eye--and found it penitent, troubled, and anxious.
"You're quite right," he said, smiling easily and naturally; "I am
unintentionally funny. And I really didn't know it--didn't suspect
it--until this moment."
"Oh," she said quickly. "I didn't mean--I know you are often
unhappy--"
"Nonsense!"
"You are! Anybody can see--and you really do not seem to be very old,
either--when you smile--"
"I'm not very old," he said, amused. "I'm not unhappy, either. If I ever
was, the truth is that I've almost forgotten by this time what it was all
about--"
"A woman," she quoted, "between friends"--and checked herself,
frightened that she had dared interpret Quair's malice.
He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his
visage.
"Oh," she faltered, "I was not saucy, only sorry. . . . I have been sorry
for you so long--"
"Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my
career?"
"It's generally supposed. I don't know anything more than that. But I've
been--sorry. Love is a very dreadful thing," she said under her breath.
"Is it?" he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.
"Don't you think so?"
"I have not thought of it that way, recently. . . . I haven't thought about

it at all--for some years. . . . Have you?" he added, trying to speak
gravely.
"Oh, yes. I have thought of it," she admitted.
"And you conclude it to be a rather dreadful business?"
"Yes, it is."
"How?"
"Oh, I don't know. A girl usually loves the wrong man. To be poor is
always bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very dreadful. It
usually finishes us--you know."
"Are you in love?" he inquired, managing to repress his amusement.
"I could be. I know that much." She went to the sink, turned on the
water, washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers looking about
for a towel.
"I'll get you one," he said. When he brought it, she laughed and held out
her hands to be dried.
"Do you think you are a Sultana?" he inquired, draping the towel across
her outstretched arms and leaving it there.
"I thought perhaps you'd dry them," she said sweetly.
"Not in the business," he remarked; and lighted his pipe.
Her hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy. She was much in
demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictures of the
Virgin, her hands usually resting against her breast.
Now she bestowed great care upon them, thoroughly drying each
separate, slender finger. Then she pushed back the heavy masses of her
hair--"a miracle of silk and sunshine," as Quair had whispered to her.
That same hair, also, was very popular among painters.

It was her figure that fascinated sculptors.
"Are you ready?" grunted Drene. Work presently recommenced.
She was entirely accustomed to praise from men, for her general
attractiveness, for various separate features in what really was an
unusually lovely ensemble.
She was also accustomed to flattery, to importunity, to the ordinary
variety of masculine solicitation; to the revelation of genuine feeling,
too, in its various modes of expression--sentimental, explosive,
insinuating--the entire gamut.
She had remained, however, untouched; curious and amused, perhaps,
yet quite satisfied, so far, to be amused; and entirely content with her
own curiosity.
She coquetted when she thought it safe; learned many things she had
not suspected; was more cautious afterwards, but still, at intervals,
ventured to use her attractiveness as a natural lure, as an excuse, as a
reason, as a weapon, when the probable consequences threatened no
embarrassment or unpleasantness for her.
She was much liked, much admired, much attempted, and entirely
untempted.
When the Make-up Club gave its annual play depicting the foibles of
artists and writers in the public eye, Cecile White was always cast for a
role which included singing and dancing.
On and off for the last year or two she had posed for Drene, had
dropped into his studio to lounge about when he had no need of her
professionally, and when she had half an hour of idleness confronting
her.
As she stood there now on the model stand, gazing dreamily from his
busy hands to his lean, intent features, it occurred