Bohemianism -- Fiction; City and town life -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
“I sha’n’t be lonesome,” Miss Clergy answered. They were a strange pair,
this wild-rose girl and the little ghost-lady who had quickened just in
time to make the wild rose become hothouse variety.
“What were you looking at so intently?” Hobart paused before they went
ahead.
“That picture of your wife,” Thurley answered without delay.
He laughed. “Dear me, that is a very famous person who is an intimate
friend of mine and a friend of my other intimate friends. Her name is
Ernestine Christian and she is a pianist. Paderewski thinks no one plays
Beethoven as well as Ernestine—you may meet her some day. But remember
that in New York the portraits of ladies hanging nearest gentlemen’s
desks are never likely to be their wives. Tell me, what do you think of
the painting?”
“That it was by the same artist who did those.” Thurley pointed
childishly.
“Right—Collin Hedley—you’ve heard of him?”
She shook her head. “We live at Birge’s Corners,” she said demurely.
“Then you will hear of him, particularly if you meet Miss Christian.
Collin painted her portrait as a revenge, because she insisted that men
with Van Dyke beards always have a queer sense of humor. I take it you
understand who boasts of a Van Dyke beard. Then they gave me the picture
because I am so fond of them both.” He was leading the way across the
room.
As she stepped inside the anteroom, Hobart closed the door. Looking about
she saw tawny, rough plaster walls, highly polished floors, a white
marble mantel seemingly unconscious of the fire of birch logs ready to
be kindled. Gold-colored curtains shut out daylight; peasant chairs with
rush seats and a great, dark-wooded settle piled with cushions gave the
proper background for the piano which stood in the center of the room.
“Sit down,” Hobart said pleasantly. “I was so interested in your fairy
godmother that I have not had a good look at you. There—so—I can see your
eyes. How old are you?” His voice changed to that of an impersonal and
rather impatient stranger’s.
“A little past twenty. Does it matter how old a person is?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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