She nervously unfolded it and read:
“My Dear Latham:
I presume you know I too was painting the ‘Athlete.’ My model is a failure, a disappointment. Come to New York at once, and pose for me at your own price.
Yours, anxiously,
Willard Frost.”
When she finished the letter she could not find a suitable answer, so she did not answer at all. Robert did not like silence, he liked to have things explained, cleared up.
He looked at his wife with grave severity, and demanded:
“You knew this was what called him away.”
“I did not,” was her truthful and emphatic reply.
“Oh, God!” in a frenzy, “just to think how I trusted him; his word and honor were dear to my very soul; but now—now I hate him, I curse him; if I ever prayed, I might pray that the train would be wrecked and dash him to his eternal, just reward.”
“Robert, Robert!” the gentle voice pleaded, “hold him not guilty without defense; he is still your friend.”
“Hush! tell me nothing. It is a plain case of villainy; he has been bought off; he has robbed me of my future,” and Robert quit the table and went at once to his room. The insanity of drink held festival in his delirious brain.