"Say, can you keep to the thread of the story, you infernal literary man!" "Well, he's popular. He don't talk money--ever. And if he's wicked, he's not sufficiently proud of it to be perpetually describing his sins. And then he is not so hideously brilliant, either. That's great credit to a man in these days. And then he--well, take it altogether, I should say Jem Oglethorpe was a smashing good fellow." "I wonder how long he is going to stay?" murmured Hawker. During this conversation his pipe had often died out. It was out at this time. He lit another match. Hollanden had watched the fingers of his friend as the match was scratched. "You're nervous, Billie," he said. Hawker straightened in his chair. "No, I'm not." "I saw your fingers tremble when you lit that match." "Oh, you lie!" Hollanden mused again. "He's popular with women, too," he said ultimately; "and often a woman will like a man and hunt his scalp just because she knows other women like him and want his scalp." "Yes, but not----" "Hold on! You were going to say that she was not like other women, weren't you?" "Not exactly that, but----" "Well, we will have all that understood." After a period of silence Hawker said, "I must be going." As the painter walked toward the door Hollanden cried to him: "Heavens! Of all pictures of a weary pilgrim!" His voice was very compassionate. Hawker wheeled, and an oath spun through the smoke clouds. CHAPTER X. "Where's Mr. Hawker this morning?" asked the younger Miss Worcester. "I thought he was coming up to play tennis?" "I don't know. Confound him! I don't see why he didn't come," said Hollanden, looking across the shining valley. He frowned questioningly at the landscape. "I wonder where in the mischief he is?" The Worcester girls began also to stare at the great gleaming stretch of green and gold. "Didn't he tell you he was coming?" they demanded. "He didn't say a word about it," answered Hollanden. "I supposed, of course, he was coming. We will have to postpone the _melee_." Later he met Miss Fanhall. "You look as if you were going for a walk?" "I am," she said, swinging her parasol. "To meet the stage. Have you seen Mr. Hawker to-day?" "No," he said. "He is not coming up this morning. He is in a great fret about that field of stubble, and I suppose he is down there sketching the life out of it. These artists--they take such a fiendish interest in their work. I dare say we won't see much of him until he has finished it. Where did you say you were going to walk?" "To meet the stage." "Oh, well, I won't have to play tennis for an hour, and if you insist----" "Of course." As they strolled slowly in the shade of the trees Hollanden began, "Isn't that Hawker an ill-bred old thing?" "No, he is not." Then after a time she said, "Why?"