Yet, by noon of the next day, when he had recovered his poise, by one of the miracles of which his extraordinary constitution was capable, curiously enough he did a thing for which she would never have dared to hope. He went over to the canvases which he had discarded so fiercely, chose the one Inga had preferred, and placed it on the easel.
At this moment Mr. Cornelius, coming in, expecting to find Dangerfield prostrate after the night’s debauch and perceiving him actually standing before his easel, burst into an exclamation of delight.
“Monsieur Cornelius,” said Dangerfield (he, of all the floor, never called him “baron”), “tell me what you think of this?”
“The baron” went lightly across the floor, picking up his feet and glancing in wonder at Inga, until he reached the easel, and adjusted his glasses with nicety. Then he looked up suddenly.
“You did this—you, my friend?”
“Yes; yesterday. What do you think of it?”
Mr. Cornelius examined it with care, nodding, raising his eyebrows, pursing his lips.
“I did not think you so strong,” he said slowly, and the look of wonder with which he examined Dangerfield had more flattery in it than his words. “C’est fort; c’est plus que fort—c’est du vrai!”
“Yes; there is something in it—something odd,” said Dangerfield slowly, to Inga’s amazement.
“You did not see things like that in Paris,” said “the baron,” still nodding. “Cristi—but it’s astonishing what you make a line do; what modeling!”