“I beg your pardon,” stammered Peter. “I rather hoped you’d let me have a look at it. You know, I was engaged to Miss Richmond.”
Roger continued in his waiting attitude. Peter felt himself dwindling before this large, dark calm. He shifted uneasily from leg to leg, opened and shut his mouth several times, finally burst out: “I say, what an ass you must think me.” And he gave Roger an honest, pathetic look of appeal—an ingenuous plea for mercy.
The large, dark calm was rippled by a smile—a very human smile. It made young Peter instantly feel that he was talking with a young human being just like himself.
“I did want to look at the picture,” said he. “You know the one I mean—the picture of her.”
Roger’s gaze wavered a little, steadied. “I’m sorry—but it’s not finished,” said he.
“Oh—I see. And, naturally, you do not want anybody to look at it. Well—I’ll come another time—if I may.”
Roger bowed.
Peter was desperate. He puffed furiously at his cigarette, finally burst out: “Did you know that Miss Richmond and her father had quarreled?”
“Really?” said Roger politely, and so far as Peter could judge the news interested him only to the degree more discouraging than no interest at all.
“Yes—they’ve quarreled—and she’s left home—is living alone at a hotel in New York—says she’s never going back.”