“Oh, is he here?” said I.
“Naturally,” replied she.
You may picture me as suddenly dashed down by this word whose meaning there was no mistaking. If so, you have discovered little about me in these pages. Life had made me a competent judge of the situation that is really hopeless, the situation where to struggle is folly, and that situation which seems hopeless to the small of earth, accustomed to defeat in their desires, but seems only difficult to the other sort of human beings.
“He has taken a studio over in the Latin quarter,” continued Mrs. Armstrong. “We are all going back together in July.”
Mrs. Armstrong is an attractive woman—singularly so for one who is obviously wholly absorbed in her husband. She has the sort of personality her paintings prepare you to expect. But I had difficulty in concealing my impatience to get away. I strolled several times through the park, which is not large, before I finally came upon Mary and Beechman seated in one of the less-frequented paths. As I was moving directly toward them, both saw me at the same instant. Her welcoming smile was radiant. I did not notice his, but I assume it was more reserved.
Never had I seen her looking so well. You may say what you please, but an American woman who knows how to dress, in touch with a French dressmaker who is rather artist than dressmaker, is the supreme combination for æsthetic beauty. Mrs. Kirkwood, of the ivory skin and the coal-black hair, was a thrilling sight to see in her white dress and big black hat, with that background of fresh spring foliage and late afternoon light. Her eyes and her smile, I noted for the first time, had somewhat the same quality as Frascatoni’s—the weary eyes, the slow sweet smile.
“Mr. Loring!” she cried, rising and extending her hand impulsively. “I thought I was never to see you again.”
I hid my emotion and greeted her, then Beechman, in my habitual manner which, they tell me, is the reverse of effusive. I suppose, when I am deeply moved, its lack of cordiality becomes even more pronounced. After a few minutes of the talk necessary among acquaintances who have not met in a long time Beechman rose.
“You and Beechman will dine with me, I hope?” I said. “Mrs. Armstrong says she will go if you can.”
It was arranged and, as the day was warm, d’Armenonville was fixed upon as the place. “Until half-past eight,” said Beechman as he left. Mary and I sat silent watching him walk away. A superb figure of young manhood, supremely fortunate in that his body was an adequate expression of a strong and simple nature.