“Not even—since you’ve come back?”
“I’ve not had time to exchange a half dozen words with her since then.”
Langdon relapsed into silence and Barnes hurried on. He was very anxious to make himself clearly understood. He didn’t want Langdon to think he was taking an unfair advantage.
“Langdon,” he said, “I’m afraid I’m not chivalrous enough to wish you success. It’s too serious a business for both of us. But I can say frankly that I want the girl to choose for her own happiness. And I don’t see a pennyworth of difference between us. We are both artists; we are both honest; we have both, I should say, about the same amount of talent whatever that may count; we offer her about the same things. We’d both buckle down to make her happy for all there is in us.”
“I don’t think women choose for those things,” answered Langdon, dully.
“Nor I neither,” agreed Barnes. “I don’t know how they choose. Perhaps they don’t choose at all. We hold out the straws and they draw. All is I want to put my straw in with yours, Langdon. I want a chance—because of all it means to me and my pictures.”
Langdon rose wearily.
“There isn’t much use discussing it,” he said. “You’re right—devilish right.”
Barnes hesitated about offering his hand.
“We can’t go ahead exactly as friends,” he faltered, “but we needn’t be enemies, need we?”