Graham was lazily contemplating4 a Keith with its inevitable5 triumph of sun-gloried atmosphere and twilight-shadowed sheep, when, from the tail of his eye, he saw his hostess come in from the far entrance. Again, the sight of her, that was a picture, gave him the little catch-breath of gasp6. She was clad entirely7 in white, and looked very young and quite tall in the sweeping8 folds of a holoku of elaborate simplicity9 and apparent shapelessness. He knew the holoku in the home of its origin, where, on the lanais of Hawaii, it gave charm to a plain woman and double-folded the charm of a charming woman.
While they smiled greeting across the room, he was noting the set of her body, the poise10 of head and frankness of eyes—all of which seemed articulate with a friendly, comradely, “Hello, friends.” At least such was the form Graham’s fancy took as she came toward him.
“You made a mistake with this room,” he said gravely.
“No, don’t say that! But how?”
“It should have been longer, much longer, twice as long at least.”
“Why?” she demanded, with a disapproving11 shake of head, while he delighted in the girlish color in her cheeks that gave the lie to her thirty-eight years.
“Because, then,” he answered, “you should have had to walk twice as far this morning and my pleasure of watching you would have been correspondingly increased. I’ve always insisted that the holoku is the most charming garment ever invented for women.”
“Then it was my holoku and not I,” she retorted. “I see you are like Dick—always with a string on your compliments, and lo, when we poor sillies start to nibble12, back goes the compliment dragging at the end of the string.
“Now I want to show you the room,” she hurried on, closing his disclaimer. “Dick gave me a free hand with it. It’s all mine, you see, even to its proportions.”
“And the pictures?”
“I selected them,” she nodded, “every one of them, and loved them onto the walls myself. Although Dick did quarrel with me over that Vereschagin. He agreed on the two Millets and the Corot over there, and on that Isabey; and even conceded that some Vereschagins might do in a music room, but not that particular Vereschagin. He’s jealous for our local artists, you see. He wanted more of them, wanted to show his appreciation13 of home talent.”
“I don’t know your Pacific Coast men’s work very well,” Graham said. “Tell me about them. Show me that—Of course, that’s a Keith, there; but whose is that next one? It’s beautiful.”
“A McComas—” she was answering; and Graham, with a pleasant satisfaction, was settling himself to a half-hour’s talk on pictures, when Donald Ware14 entered with questing eyes that lighted up at sight of the Little Lady.
His violin was under his arm, and he crossed to the piano in a brisk, business-like way and proceeded to lay out music.
“We’re going to work till lunch,” Paula explained to Graham. “He swears I’m getting abominably15 rusty16, and I think he’s half right. We’ll see you at lunch. You can stay if you care, of course; but I warn you it’s really going to be work. And we’re going swimming this afternoon. Four o’clock at the tank, Dick says. Also, he says he’s got a new song he’s going to sing then.—What time is it, Mr. Ware?”
“Ten minutes to eleven,” the musician answered briefly17, with a touch of sharpness.
“You’re ahead of time—the engagement was for eleven. And till eleven you’ll have to wait, sir. I must run and see Dick, first. I haven’t said good morning to him yet.”
Well Paula knew her husband’s hours. Scribbled18 secretly in the back of the note-book that lay always on the reading stand by her couch were hieroglyphic19 notes that reminded her that he had coffee at six-thirty; might possibly be caught in bed with proof-sheets or books till eight-forty-five, if not out riding; was inaccessible20 between nine and ten, dictating21 correspondence to Blake; was inaccessible between ten and eleven, conferring with managers and foremen, while Bonbright, the assistant secretary, took down, like any court reporter, every word uttered by all parties in the rapid-fire interviews.
At eleven, unless there were unexpected telegrams or business, she could usually count on finding Dick alone for a space, although invariably busy. Passing the secretaries’ room, the click of a typewriter informed her that one obstacle was removed. In the library, the sight of Mr. Bonbright hunting a book for Mr. Manson, the Shorthorn manager, told her that Dick’s hour with his head men was over.
She pressed the button that swung aside a section of filled book-shelves and revealed the tiny spiral of steel steps that led up to Dick’s work room. At the top, a similar pivoting22 section of shelves swung obediently to her press of button and let her noiselessly into his room. A shade of vexation passed across her face as she recognized Jeremy Braxton’s voice. She paused in indecision, neither seeing nor being seen.
“If we flood we flood,” the mine superintendent
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
