The Third Violet | Page 9

and in consequence there was quarrelling until the
blinking lights of the inn appeared above them as if a great lantern
hung there.
Hollanden conveyed his friend some distance on the way home from
the inn to the farm. "Good time at the picnic?" said the writer.
"Yes."
"Picnics are mainly places where the jam gets on the dead leaves, and
from thence to your trousers. But this was a good little picnic." He
glanced at Hawker. "But you don't look as if you had such a swell
time."
Hawker waved his hand tragically. "Yes--no--I don't know."
"What's wrong with you?" asked Hollanden.
"I tell you what it is, Hollie," said the painter darkly, "whenever I'm
with that girl I'm such a blockhead. I'm not so stupid, Hollie. You know
I'm not. But when I'm with her I can't be clever to save my life."
Hollanden pulled contentedly at his pipe. "Maybe she don't notice it."
"Notice it!" muttered Hawker, scornfully; "of course she notices it. In
conversation with her, I tell you, I am as interesting as an iron dog."
His voice changed as he cried, "I don't know why it is. I don't know
why it is."
Blowing a huge cloud of smoke into the air, Hollanden studied it
thoughtfully. "Hits some fellows that way," he said. "And, of course, it
must be deuced annoying. Strange thing, but now, under those
circumstances, I'm very glib. Very glib, I assure you."
"I don't care what you are," answered Hawker. "All those confounded

affairs of yours--they were not----"
"No," said Hollanden, stolidly puffing, "of course not. I understand that.
But, look here, Billie," he added, with sudden brightness, "maybe you
are not a blockhead, after all. You are on the inside, you know, and you
can't see from there. Besides, you can't tell what a woman will think.
You can't tell what a woman will think."
"No," said Hawker, grimly, "and you suppose that is my only chance?"
"Oh, don't be such a chump!" said Hollanden, in a tone of vast
exasperation.
They strode for some time in silence. The mystic pines swaying over
the narrow road made talk sibilantly to the wind. Stanley, the setter,
took it upon himself to discover some menacing presence in the woods.
He walked on his toes and with his eyes glinting sideways. He swore
half under his breath.
"And work, too," burst out Hawker, at last. "I came up here this season
to work, and I haven't done a thing that ought not be shot at."
"Don't you find that your love sets fire to your genius?" asked
Hollanden gravely.
"No, I'm hanged if I do."
Hollanden sighed then with an air of relief. "I was afraid that a popular
impression was true," he said, "but it's all right. You would rather sit
still and moon, wouldn't you?"
"Moon--blast you! I couldn't moon to save my life."
"Oh, well, I didn't mean moon exactly."
CHAPTER VIII.
The blue night of the lake was embroidered with black tree forms.

Silver drops sprinkled from the lifted oars. Somewhere in the gloom of
the shore there was a dog, who from time to time raised his sad voice to
the stars.
"But still, the life of the studios----" began the girl.
Hawker scoffed. "There were six of us. Mainly we smoked. Sometimes
we played hearts and at other times poker--on credit, you know--credit.
And when we had the materials and got something to do, we worked.
Did you ever see these beautiful red and green designs that surround
the common tomato can?"
"Yes."
"Well," he said proudly, "I have made them. Whenever you come upon
tomatoes, remember that they might once have been encompassed in
my design. When first I came back from Paris I began to paint, but
nobody wanted me to paint. Later, I got into green corn and
asparagus----"
"Truly?"
"Yes, indeed. It is true."
"But still, the life of the studios----"
"There were six of us. Fate ordained that only one in the crowd could
have money at one time. The other five lived off him and despised
themselves. We despised ourselves five times as long as we had
admiration."
"And was this just because you had no money?"
"It was because we had no money in New York," said Hawker.
"Well, after a while something happened----"
"Oh, no, it didn't. Something impended always, but it never happened."

"In a case like that one's own people must be such a blessing. The
sympathy----"
"One's own people!" said Hawker.
"Yes," she said, "one's own people and more intimate friends. The
appreciation----"
"'The appreciation!'" said Hawker. "Yes, indeed!"
He seemed so ill-tempered that she became silent. The boat floated
through the shadows of the trees and out to where the water was like a
blue crystal. The