The model gone, Dangerfield, all else forgotten, stood eagerly contemplating the little masterpiece which a fortunate hazard had thrown in his way.
“What luck!” he said joyfully, his knuckles pressed against his teeth in that intimate gesture of excitement which she had come to know so well. “The beggar was fast asleep dreaming of running spigots and seas of beer when I came in. What luck! I never would have gotten this in the world.”
“It is you at your best,” she said, nodding with a pleased smile. “By the way, what was it you wanted to see me about?”
He looked at her, suddenly remembering, surprised at how quickly his irritation had passed.
“Oh, yes, and it’s very serious, too,” he said hastily, and then in order to reassemble all the resentment he had felt he took a turn or two about the room, drew off his blouse and flung it viciously across the room. “You know, Inga, I’m very angry with you.”
“Why?” she said with just the trace of a smile.
“What the deuce do you mean by going back to your studio? I don’t like it. This is as much yours as it is mine. If you are going to work, work here with me. You always used to.”
“Yes, I used to, but that was different.”
“Why?”
“I can tell you now,” she said. “When I worked here, it was to help you, quiet you, because you needed to have me near you, always near you,—all the time.”