“Oh, he's an artist?” inquired Norma.
“He just manages to make a living by it, poor old chap! He has never come off, somehow.”
“Another neglected genius?”
“I don't know about that,” replied Morland King in a matter-of-fact way, not detecting the sneer in the girl's tone. “I don't think he's a great swell—I'm no judge, you know. But he has had a bad time. Anyway, he always comes up smiling. The more he gets knocked the more cheerful he seems to grow. I never met any one like him. The most generous, simple-minded beggar living.”
“He must be wonderful to make you enthusiastic,” said Norma.
“Look at him now, talking to the Chance woman as if she were an angel of light.”
Norma glanced across the room and smiled contemptuously.
“She seems to like it. She's preening herself as if the wings were already grown. Connie,” she called to her hostess, who was passing by, “why have you hidden Mr. Padgate from me all this time?”
The butterfly lady laughed. “He is too precious. I can only afford to give my friends a peep at him now and then. I want to keep him all to myself.”
She fluttered away. Norma leaned back and hid a yawn with her fan; then, rousing herself with an effort, made conversation with her companion. Presently another man came up and King retired.