In the room she helped him off with his coat, puttees and shoes and then pulling a blanket over him left him to his own devices and went back to the studio to wait for Barry Quinlevin.
But she wasn't weary now. From the same reserve force from which she drew the strength to stand for hours and paint even when her sitters were weary, she gained new courage and resolution for the return of Quinlevin. But for a moment she was tempted again. The way was clear. What was to prevent her from going and finding Jim? For a moment only. Then she sank, into the chair by the fireplace—to fight her battle with herself and wait. Her glance restlessly passed from one familiar object to another, the portrait on the easel, the lay figure in the corner in its fantastic pose and heterogeneous costume, the draperies for her backgrounds, hanging just as they had hung this afternoon, and yet all so strangely changed. The door of the closet where Jim had been hidden remained open, exhibiting its untidy interior. Instinctively she rose and closed it, her sense of order triumphant even over her mental sufferings. Then she went back and sat down to think. There was much that she and her—that she and Barry Quinlevin would have to say to each other.
He came at last, expecting to find Harry and not the straight figure of the woman who faced him like a pale fury. The shadows of pain at her eyes were gone, lost in deeper shadows of anger and determination.
"You! Moira," he said in surprise.
"Yes, I——"
"Where's Harry?"
"I put him to bed. He was drunk," she said shortly.
"The devil he was!" He frowned darkly and then seemed as ever, quite the master of himself. If the glance he cast at her discovered her state of mind, he gave no sign of uneasiness. He approached her with his easy air as if nothing unusual had happened, but when he spoke again his voice was pitched low and his eyes were soft.
"I thought you'd be in bed, child——"
"I've something to say to you——" she cut in quickly.