When they arrived at Brainard’s house, they found that Farson had not yet come in from rehearsal. The two women were shown into the little den behind the library, while Brainard glanced over his mail.
Five minutes had scarcely elapsed when a shriek came from the inner room, and the door was thrown violently open. Louisiana stood on the threshold, clasping against her breast a little picture framed in a thin gold molding.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded breathlessly.
Brainard looked at her admiringly. As she stood there against the dark shadows of the inner room, the sun from the window falling in a great gold bar across her auburn hair and violet-colored traveling dress—thin, erect, full of the passionate eagerness of youth—he saw Farson’s character created.
“Tell me, where did you find this?” she insisted impatiently.
“What have you got there?” he asked, taking the picture from her hands.
Her face followed his with curiosity and expectation, her eyes searching him.
“Where did you get it?” she repeated.
“This water color? I picked it up in Arizona—out there where my mine is located. It’s a long story—my story. I’ll tell it to you some of these days.”