“Nora is studying a new opera, and Molly-O is ragging the village dressmaker. It’s only half after ten, and we can whack ’em around until noon. I warn you, I’m something of a shark.”
“I’ll lay you the cigars that I beat you.”
“You’re on!”
Harrigan put the book in his pocket, and the two of them made for the upper path, not, however, without waving a friendly adieu to Celeste, who was watching them with much curiosity.
For a moment Nora became visible in the window. Her expression did not signify that the sight of the men together pleased her. On the contrary, her eyes burned and her brow was ruffled by several wrinkles which threatened to become permanent if the condition of affairs continued to remain as it was. To her the calm placidity of the man was nothing less than monumental impudence. How she hated him; how bitterly, how intensely she hated him! She withdrew from the window without having been seen.
“Did you ever see two finer specimens of man?” Celeste asked of Abbott.
“What? Who?” mumbled Abbott, whose forehead was puckered with impatience. “Oh, those two? They are well set up. But what the deuce is the matter with this foreground?” taking the brushes from his teeth. “I’ve been hammering away at it for a week, and it does not get there yet.”
Celeste rose and laid aside her work. She stood behind him and studied the picture through half-closed critical eyes. “You have painted it over too many times.” Then she looked down at the shapely head. Ah, the longing to put her hands upon it, to run her fingers through the tousled hair, to touch it with her lips! But no! “Perhaps you are tired; perhaps you have worked too hard. Why not put aside your brushes for a week?”
“I’ve a good mind to chuck it into the lake. I simply can’t paint any more.” He flung down the brushes. “I’m a fool, Celeste, a fool. I’m crying for the moon, that’s what the matter is. What’s the use of beating about the bush? You know as well as I do that it’s Nora.”
Her heart contracted, and for a little while she could not see him clearly.