White Magic: A Novel

by David Graham Phillips

When he arrived in sight of the studio there sat “the hound” on the doorsill, smoking a pipe. Roger did not move until Richmond was within, perhaps, twenty yards—reasonable speaking distance; then he rose and waited in large tranquillity. Richmond advanced until he was about ten feet away. There he halted. To have gone nearer would have been to put himself, the small of stature and the spare of build, absurdly in contrast to the towering Roger—like a meager little bush at the base of a tree. Across the space between them he hurled at Roger one of those glances which Roger himself had described as “aimed to kill.”

“What can I do for you, sir?” inquired the young man at length. He showed not a hint that he was aware of the wrath storming in the small man.

“You—you damn scoundrel!” ejaculated Richmond between his teeth—for the feeling of futility acted on his rage like oil on fire.

Richmond’s mien had prepared Roger for something like this, so he bore the shock with infuriating composure. He eyed his insulter without moving a muscle of his face, then turned and crossed the threshold of his studio, reaching for the door to close it.

“Hold on there!” cried Richmond. “I’ve got something to say to you.”

Roger went on in and closed the door. Richmond stared at it with mouth ajar. What sort of a scheme was this? What did the fellow calculate to gain toward his ends by making such a move? Richmond could not but admire its audacity. “No wonder he has succeeded in convincing the little fool that he is sincere.” He advanced and opened the door. He entered the big, bare room; Roger, crayon in hand, was standing before the sketch that had been upon the easel when they left. He did not glance toward Richmond; he did not pause in his work. Richmond had not entered without having thought out a plan of procedure. Plain talk was the thing—not insulting, but plain. He must frankly assume that the artist was a detected and baffled plotter of a marriage for money.

“My daughter has confessed to me,” said Richmond in a tone that was at least not insulting. “I have talked with her, and she is already ashamed of herself. So I have come from her to inform you that it will be useless for you to pursue your projects further.”

“‘There ought to be a law that could reach fellows like you.’”

The big, young man stood back from his sketch, eyed it critically. A thin stream of smoke curled from the pipe in the corner of his mouth. He went on drawing as if he were alone in the room.