Leronde stood for a moment watching his friends excitedly; and then, as Pacey moved towards the door, he sprang before it.
“No, no!” he cried; “you two shall not quarrel. I will not see it. You, my two artist friends who took pity on me when I fly—I, a communard—for my life from Paris. You, Pacie, who say I am brother of the crayon, and help me to sell to the dealaire; you, Dale, dear friend, who say, ‘Come, ole boy, and here is papaire and tobacco for cigarette,’ and at times the dinner and the bock of bière, and sometimes wine—you shake hands, both of you. I, Alexis Leronde, say you muss.”
“Silence!” roared Pacey. “Whoever heard of good coming of French mediation?”
“Be quiet, Leronde,” cried Armstrong firmly. “Joe, old fellow, let me—a word—explain.”
“Explain?” growled Pacey, as the young Parisian shrugged his shoulders and stood aside to begin rolling up a cigarette with his thin deft fingers.
“Stop, Joe!” cried Armstrong, “you shall not go. The letter is some request about the picture—for another artist to finish it. Here, read it, and satisfy yourself.”
He tore open the scented missive, glanced at it, and was about to hand it over to his friend; but a few words caught his eye, and he crushed the paper in his hand, to stand flushed and frowning before his friend.
“All right: I see,” said the latter, with a bitter, contemptuous laugh. “We’re a paltry, weak lot, we men. Poor little daughter of the stars and stripes across the herring-pond! I’m sorry, for I did think I could believe your word.”
“Dear boys—ole men!” cried Leronde, advancing once more to play mediator.
“Shut up!” roared Pacey, so fiercely that the young Frenchman frowned, folded his arms across his chest, and puffed out a cloud of smoke in defiance.