The girl, pale, crestfallen, half rose, and reseated herself, looked appealingly at Roger, who seemed not to see, then stood. “When can we see the picture?” she asked, casting desperately about for an excuse for lingering.
“We don’t want to see it at all,” her father put in, with a jovial, sardonic laugh that revealed unpleasantly his strong, sallow, crowded teeth. “Mr. Wade needn’t bother to complete it. I’ll send him a check for whatever you settled as the price——”
“Father!” gasped Beatrice despairingly. Then, to Roger, with a nervous attempt at a lively smile: “He doesn’t mean it. He’s simply joking.”
“Your father and I understand each other,” said Roger tranquilly. “The picture’ll be done in a few days. I’ll send it to Red Hill immediately. I always like to get a finished job out of the place. I’ve got a terrible habit of tinkering as long as a thing’s within reach. As for the check”—he smiled pleasantly at Richmond, who looked—and felt—small and shriveled before the large candor of the artist’s expression—“your daughter is a poor business woman. She forgot to make a bargain. So it lies between your generosity and mine.” Roger made a courtly bow, with enough mockery in it to take away affectation. “I’m sure mine will come nearer the value of the picture. I’ll make you a present of it—with my compliments.”
“Can’t permit it!” said Richmond angrily.
But Roger remained suave. “I don’t see how you’re going to help yourself,” said he. “I can send it back to you as often as you return it to me, and if you can refuse to take it in, why, so can I. You can’t make me ridiculous without my making you ridiculous also. You see, you’re in my power, Mr. Richmond.” All this with the utmost good humor and friendliness.
Richmond could think of nothing to say but a repetition of his curt “Can’t permit it!” He glanced in the direction of his daughter, jerked his head toward the door. “Come along, child. Good day, sir.” Roger’s expression, from the height of his tall figure, was so compelling that he put out his hand, which Roger took and shook with the cordiality of a host to whom any guest is inviolable.
Beatrice and Roger shook hands—that is, Beatrice let her hand rest lifelessly in Roger’s until he dropped it. He bowed them out into the sunshine and stood in the doorway, watching them. At the edge of the forest Beatrice turned suddenly and started back. Roger saw her father wheel round—heard his sharp “Beatrice!”—saw his look of furious amazement. The girl came almost running. Roger braced himself, through his whole body a gripping sensation that might be either terror or delight.
When she stood before him, her eyes down, her cheeks pale, her bosom heaving, she said: “The other day you asked me whether I’d give up everything for you. I didn’t know then. I do know now.”
“Pardon me, but I did not,” said Roger, calm and cold.