The Barone was Italian. He had sought Abbott with the best intentions; to apologize abjectly, distasteful though it might be to his hot blood. Instead, he struck Abbott across the mouth, and the latter promptly knocked him down.
CHAPTER XVIII
PISTOLS FOR TWO
Courtlandt knocked on the studio door.
“Come in.”
He discovered Abbott, stretched out upon the lounge, idly picking at the loose plaster in the wall.
“Hello!” said Abbott carelessly. “Help yourself to a chair.”
Instead, Courtlandt walked about the room, aimlessly. He paused at the window; he picked up a sketch and studied it at various angles; he kicked the footstool across the floor, not with any sign of anger but with a seriousness that would have caused Abbott to laugh, had he been looking at his friend. He continued, however, to pluck at the plaster. He had always hated and loved Courtlandt, alternately. He never sought to analyze this peculiar cardiac condition. He only knew that at one time he hated the man, and that at another he would have laid down his life for him. Perhaps it was rather a passive jealousy which he mistook for hatred. Abbott had never envied Courtlandt his riches; but often the sight of Courtlandt’s physical superiority, his adaptability, his knowledge of men and affairs, the way he had of anticipating the unspoken wishes of women, his unembarrassed gallantry, these attributes stirred the envy of which he was always manly enough to be ashamed. Courtlandt’s unexpected appearance in Bellaggio had also created a suspicion which he could not minutely define. The truth was, when a man loved, every other man became his enemy, not excepting her father: the primordial instinct has survived all the applications of veneer. So, Abbott was not at all pleased to see his friend that morning.