Only a few words were said and those quite inconsequential. In the eyes of the young man he had seen the sudden leap of hatred and animal jealousy which once, he remembered, had torn his soul in shreds in the days of his own infatuation. That Champeno adored her with a clinging idolatrous faith was evident. Dangerfield had looked eagerly at Inga, into the sea-blue eyes, seeking some clue there of regret, of complaint, of renewed triumph or of restlessness, but her eyes as always retained their veil. He could divine nothing.
Yet of the man himself he retained a singularly illuminating memory, an impression of a morose and tortured child, of violent moods and moral weakness,—a precocious child tortured by a spark of genius, utterly undisciplined and untamed, incapable of standing alone.
“The battle there will never be won,” he thought, with a sudden comprehension, and he added with a little touch of poignant regret, “and he will adore her fiercely, tyrannically as I never could.”
The answer to many perplexities seemed to be there. Inga had adored him and by the other she had been adored. With him her reason for existing had been accomplished, with the other it could never end. With him she had never quite been herself, conscious of intangible social demarcations, while with Champeno she went arm in arm, child of the people to the last.
He moved over to where De Gollyer was standing in critical admiration before the exhibit of the young sculptor which had attracted general enthusiasm. It was a group of immigrants, mother and babe, with children clutching at her skirts, marooned on a flight of stairs, looking hopelessly out on the sea of New York; powerfully repulsive, startling in its fidelity, revolutionary but convincing.
“What puzzles you?” he asked.
“My boy, it has a suggestion of you,” said De Gollyer, with his head on one side. “Fact—reminds me of things you’ve done.”
“You think so?” he said, surprised that his friend had noticed what he had felt at the first glance.
“It’s strong—best thing in years. The boy’s got it fairly,” said De Gollyer, “came out of the slums himself; the iron and the gall are there. There’s a story he started in an East Side gang and was railroaded up to the reformatory for a year. Probably fiction. But he’s felt what he’s crying out to us. No mistake about that. And yet, Dan, if you’d signed it I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
Dangerfield didn’t reply. He was staring at the strangely revealing group, wondering what else she had taken out of his life to give to the other.