Children of the Whirlwind | Page 9

light, and midday or midnight were almost equally apt to find him slashing with brush or scratching with crayon.
Presently the Duchess entered. No word was spoken. The Duchess, noteworthy for her mastery of silence, sank into a chair, a bent and shrunken image, nothing seemingly alive about her but her faintly gleaming, deep-set eyes. Several minutes passed, then Hunt lifted the canvas from the easel and stood it against the wall.
"That's all for to-day, Maggie," he announced, pushing the easel to one side. "Duchess, you and this wild young thing spread the banquet- table while I wash up."
He disappeared into a corner shut off by burlap curtains. From within there issued the sound of splashing water and the sputtering roar of snatches of the Toreador's song in a very big and very bad baritone.
Maggie put out a hand, and kept the Duchess from rising. "Sit still-- I'll fix the table."
Silently the Duchess acquiesced. Maggie had never felt any tenderness toward this strange, silent woman with whom she had lived for three years, but it was perhaps an indication of qualities within Maggie, whose existence she herself never even guessed, that she instinctively pushed the old woman aside from tasks which involved any physical effort. Maggie now swung the back of a laundry bench up to form a table-top, and upon it proceeded to spread a cloth and arrange a medley of chipped dishes. As she moved swiftly and deftly about, the Duchess watching her with immobile features, these two made a strangely contrasting pair: one seemingly spent and at life's grayest end, the other electric with vitality and giving off the essence of life's unknown adventures.
Hunt stepped out between the curtains, pulling on his coat. "You'll find that chow in my fireless cooker will beat the Ritz," he boasted. "The tenderest, fattest kind of a fatted calf for the returned prodigal."
Maggie started. "The prodigal! You mean--Larry is coming?"
"Sure," grinned Hunt. "That's why we celebrate."
Maggie wheeled upon the Duchess. "Is Larry really coming?"
"Yes," said the old woman.
"But--but why the uncertainty about when he was coming back? Father and Barney thought he was due to get out yesterday."
"Just a mistake we all made about his release. His time was up this afternoon."
"But you told Barney and my father you hadn't heard from him."
"I had heard," said the Duchess in her flat tone. "If they want to see him they can see him to-morrow."
"When--when will he be here?"
"Any minute," said the Duchess.
Without a word Maggie whirled about and the next moment she was in her room on the floor below. She did not know what prompted her, but she had a frantic desire to get out of this plain shirt-waist and skirt and into something that would be striking. She considered her scanty wardrobe; her father had recently spoken of handsome gowns and furnishings, but as yet these existed only in his words, and the pseudo-evening gowns which she had worn to restaurant dances with Barney she knew to be cheap and uneffective.
Suddenly she remembered the things Hunt had given her, or had loaned her, the evening four months earlier when he had taken her to an artists' masquerade ball--though to her it had been a bitter disappointment when Hunt had carried her away before the unmasking at twelve o'clock. She tore off the offending waist and skirt, pulled from beneath the bed the pasteboard box containing her costume; and in five minutes of flying hands the transformation was completed. Her thick hair of burnished black was piled on top of her head in gracious disorder, and from it swayed a scarlet paper flower. About her lithe body, over a black satin skirt, swathing her in its graceful folds, clung a Spanish shawl of saffron-colored background with long brown silken fringe, and flowered all over with brown and red and peacock blue, and held in place by three huge barbaric pins jeweled with colored glass, one at either hip and upon her right shoulder, leaving her smooth shoulders bare and free. With no more than a glance to get the hasty effect, she hurried up to the studio.
Hunt whistled at sight of her, but made no remark. Flushed, she looked back at him defiantly. The Duchess gave no sign whatever of being aware of the transformation.
Maggie with excited touches tried to improve her setting of the table, aquiver with expectancy and suspense at the nearness of the meeting-- every nerve of audition strained to catch the first footfall upon the stairs. Hunt, watching her, could but wonder, in case Larry was the clever, dashing person that had been described, what would be the outcome when these two natures met and perhaps joined forces.
CHAPTER IV
While the preparations for dinner were going on in the studio, down below Larry turned a corner and swung up