“Not in the least. It was a fine friendly—decent thing to do.... Would you like to see the picture?”
And without giving Peter time to reply, or himself a chance to repent the impulse, he flung aside the drapery over the easel in the middle of the room. He and Peter gazed in silence. It was a glorious vision of morning in the springtime. Upon lake and cataract, upon tree and bush and stone, sparkled the radiance of the birthday of summer. That radiance seemed to come from the figure of a young girl in a canoe, her paddle poised for the stroke—an attitude of exquisite grace, a figure alive in every line of flesh and drapery—a face shedding the soft luster of the bright hopes and dreams and joys that are summed up in the thrilling word, youth. Roger was right in thinking it his best work, his best expression of that intense joy of life which he was ever striving to put upon canvas.
Peter gave a long, furtive sigh. “Yes,” he muttered, “she can look like that.” He had seen her look just so once—when she told him she loved the artist and would never change. Queer, how anyone could so love that she got happiness out of giving love, even though it was unreturned. Queer—yet, there it was. Roger, with a sudden gesture, recovered the canvas. Peter stood motionless, staring at where the picture had been—it was still there for him. He roused himself, looked at the painter with frank admiration and respect. “That’s worth while!” said he. “No wonder she——”
Roger’s frown checked him. But only for a moment; then he went on, in an awed undertone: “She’s more of a—a person than anyone I ever saw. If she’d let me I’d be crazy about her. As it is, while I know I can never get her, everything’s stopped short with me until I’m sure she’s out of reach—married to some one else. I’m a better man for having known her, for having loved her.”
Roger was standing with arms folded upon his broad chest—powerful arms bare to the elbow. He seemed lost in reverie.
“Thank you for showing me that,” said Peter gratefully and humbly. “I’d wish to own it if it wasn’t that—well, I’d never be able to get any peace of mind if I had it about. I’d stare at it till I went crazy.”
Roger flushed a significant, a guilty deep red.
Peter got himself together with a shake of his big frame. “I’m off, now. You’ll not say anything about my having called—not to her or anyone?”
“I do not see anyone,” said Roger in a constrained voice.
“But you’ll surely—” began Peter, but he halted on the threshold of impertinence. “Well—I hope you’ll look in at the Wolcott and cheer her up. Good-by. Thank you again.”