Red Money | Page 8

radiant flower-beds. From the tiny green
door she raised the burnished knocker and brought it down with an
emphatic bang. Shortly the door opened with a pettish tug, as though
the person behind was rather annoyed by the noise, and a very tall,
well-built, slim young man made his appearance on the threshold. He
held a palette on the thumb of one hand, and clutched a sheaf of
brushes, while another brush was in his mouth, and luckily impeded a
rather rough welcome. The look in a pair of keen blue eyes certainly
seemed to resent the intrusion, but at the sight of Miss Greeby this
irritability changed to a glance of suspicion. Lambert, from old
associations, liked his visitor very well on the whole, but that feminine
intuition, which all creative natures possess, warned him that it was
wise to keep her at arm's length. She had never plainly told her love;
but she had assuredly hinted at it more or less by eye and manner and

undue hauntings of his footsteps when in London. He could not
truthfully tell himself that he was glad of her unexpected visit. For
quite half a minute they stood staring at one another, and Miss Greeby's
hard cheeks flamed to a poppy red at the sight of the man she loved.
"Well, Hermit." she observed, when he made no remark. "As the
mountain would not come to Mahomet, the prophet has come to the
mountain."
"The mountain is welcome," said Lambert diplomatically, and stood
aside, so that she might enter. Then adopting the bluff and breezy,
rough-and-ready-man-to-man attitude, which Miss Greeby liked to see
in her friends, he added: "Come in, old girl! It's a pal come to see a pal,
isn't it?"
"Rather," assented Miss Greeby, although, woman-like, she was not
entirely pleased with this unromantic welcome. "We played as brats
together, didn't we?
"Yes," she added meditatively, when following Lambert into his studio,
"I think we are as chummy as a man and woman well can be."
"True enough. You were always a good sort, Clara. How well you are
looking--more of a man than ever."
"Oh, stop that!" said Miss Greeby roughly.
"Why?" Lambert raised his eyebrows. "As a girl you always liked to be
thought manly, and said again and again that you wished you were a
boy."
"I find that I am a woman, after all," sighed the visitor, dropping into a
chair and looking round; "with a woman's feelings, too."
"And very nice those feelings are, since they have influenced you to
pay me a visit in the wilds," remarked the artist imperturbably.
"What are you doing in the wilds?"

"Painting," was the laconic retort.
"So I see. Still-life pictures?"
"Not exactly." He pointed toward the easel. "Behold and approve."
Miss Greeby did behold, but she certainly did not approve, because she
was a woman and in love. It was only a pictured head she saw, but the
head was that of a very beautiful girl, whose face smiled from the
canvas in a subtle, defiant way, as if aware of its wild loveliness. The
raven hair streamed straightly down to the shoulders--for the bust of the
model was slightly indicated--and there, bunched out into curls. A red
and yellow handkerchief was knotted round the brows, and dangling
sequins added to its barbaric appearance. Nose and lips and eyes, and
contours, were all perfect, and it really seemed as though the face were
idealized, so absolutely did it respond to all canons of beauty. It was a
gypsy countenance, and there lurked in its loveliness that wild,
untamed look which suggested unrestricted roamings and the spacious
freedom of the road.
The sudden, jealous fear which surged into Miss Greeby's heart
climbed to her throat and choked her speech. But she had wisdom
enough to check unwise words, and glanced round the studio to recover
her composure. The room was small and barely furnished; a couch, two
deep arm-chairs, and a small table filled its limited area. The walls and
roof were painted a pale green, and a carpet of the same delicate hue
covered the floor. Of course, there were the usual painting materials,
brushes and easel and palettes and tubes of color, together with a
slightly raised platform near the one window where the model could sit
or stand. The window itself had no curtains and was filled with plain
glass, affording plenty of light.
"The other windows of the cottage are latticed," said Lambert, seeing
his visitor's eyes wander in that direction. "I had that glass put in when
I came here a month ago. No light can filter through lattices--in
sufficient quantity that is--to see the true tones of the colors."
"Oh, bother the window!" muttered Miss Greeby restlessly, for she had

not yet gained command