Bentley nodded.
“Very fortunate, very fortunate indeed. So many poor devils have to start with literally nothing but their talent. You’re unusually blessed. Well, I must be getting to bed. We dock early to-morrow, I believe. I’ve enjoyed talking to you immensely, and you’ll pardon my leaving so abruptly, won’t you? Good-night.”
Carlos stood gazing after him a moment; then, turning away, went off in the direction of his own stateroom. He had an uneasy feeling that the man had not quite approved of him, although he was unable to explain what he himself had said that could have given ground for such an opinion.
When he got to his stateroom, he found a message that his wife had left on his bureau before going to bed. It had come by wireless that evening and was from his father. On opening it, he read:
“Meet you at pier. Glad you are settling down to work at last.
Dad.”
Carlos laughed softly. Just like his father to mention work, even in a wireless. It occurred to him that everyone, ever since he was a boy, had been wanting him to work. They had all told him what great things they expected of his talent if he would only use it. His mother had cherished a letter from a boyhood schoolmaster, which dwelt in glowing terms on his artistic ability, while at the same time it decried his indolence. His wife had refused many suitors as importunate and more wealthy than he because she was in love with him, and believed that her love could make him fight for the success which was expected of him. Well, his father was right—it was time to start work. They had had enough disappointments in him, and now he must do something to make them proud of him. It wouldn’t be hard.
In an exceedingly virtuous mood Carlos bent over and kissed his sleeping wife. What a wonderful girl Eloise was, and what a trump to have believed in him enough to have married him. He would work as he never had before as soon as they got settled in New York. With which resolutions he got into bed to dream of painting portraits for the kings and queens of Europe.
Four months later in a studio-apartment in the low Fifties a wet paint-brush was hurled viciously at a small statue of the Laocoon. It struck the largest figure full in the face with a comforting smack, and clattered to the floor. Carlos Bentley had been trying to do a portrait. Eloise, who in lieu of a regular model had been sitting for him, started at the sound, then relaxed her pose. She was an appealing figure with a touch of dynamic force in the aggressive tilt of her chin that made Carlos, jokingly and yet half-seriously, call her his will-power; at this moment she seemed to be bracing herself as if to meet something.