THE COURIER.
OBfolVION.
s
The Story of a Painter's Opportunity.
Oo a long cane lounge at the side of
the room a man lay asleep, one velvety
clad arm thrown across his eyes to shut
oat the hard glare from the skylight
abavehim. Through a colored window
at the end of the studio a bar of sun
light struck redly and fell upon the
dence bronze curl of bis hair and head
and the short, powerful fingers of his
unturned band. A half-smoked cigar
ette had fallen upon the dark red rug
beside him. A yellow-backed French
novel lay at the man's feet. His lips,
red and full, were- half unclosed in a
faint smile.
The shutting of a door he had left
ajar did not rouse him. A woman came
in, swishing her long skirts over the
bare floor. She wore a Iooeb house
gown of peacock-blue silk; somewhat
faded and worn about the hem. Her
dark rusty-brown hair was twisted up
not too tidily in an unbecoming knot.
Her br'gbtblue etes blinked in the
strong light, and she put up one long
nervous hand to shield ihem.
She stood still for a moment in the
middle of the'fljor, looking at the sleep
ing man. Then she went to his side,
picked up the novel and the cigarette,
tossed the latter into the fire in the
grate, and looked at the book as though
she would have liked to dispose of this
in the same manner. However, she laid
it down on a table, pushing it under a
pila of other books.
The light at its strongest fell upon
sjme large object standing in tin centre
o! the Hooron a wooden pedejtal, shroud
ed in a white cloth. The woman'sjeyes
fell on this with a bitter curiosity. She
hesitated for some time, glancing at the
man on the louDge. At last she went up
to the pedestal and carefuily lifted off
the cloth, which had rested on splinters
of wood stuck into the wet cla, ,
There was revealed the figure of a
woman, some what more than life siz?,
lying at fall length in an attituue of
rigid calm, the arms straight al the
sides, the hands (aid palms upward,
with relaxed fingers. The Ioosb hair
swept sideways from her face over a
sheaf of flowers as yet only roughly in
dicated, and curled in a deep wave over
her arm. The thin drapery, drawn in
long oblique folds from right to left,
revealed outlines full and firmly mould
ed, composed now to an unnatural
quiet. Trie face, too, with heavy, down
cast lids and lightly closed, full-bowed
mouth, seen in profile, wore an expres
sion of life held in some strange trance.
It was not sleep; a latent mockery hid
beneath those brows and lurked in the
corners of those unsmiling lips.
The clay model seemed nearly fin
ished, with the exception of the detail
of the feet.
"Well, what are you doing?" demand
ed a voice suddenly and sharpely. The
man stood up, yawning and frowning
elightly.
"I wanted to Bee how you get on, said
the woman, hir fingers twitching ner
vously at a corner of the white cloth,
which trailed upon the floor. She tried
to speak lightly and to smile, but her
lips were dry and hard.
"You might have asked. You know I
hate prying about before the thing's"
finished."
The artist's thick brows knitted over
his gray-blue eyes. He got up and tock
the sheet from tne womanV loose grasp.
"Will it be done in time?" 9he asked
absently, her eyes still studying the re
cumbent figure.
"Well, I suppose bo.'"
She glanced at him now sharply with
t. certain irony.
"Are yon satisfied with it?" v
His shrug spoke an -.irritation which
he did not try-to conceal. - j
"What a question! As though I' were
ever satisfied."
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His eyes, resting, too, on the clay
figure darkened mood.ly. And the wo
man, watching, smiled a swift, in
voluntary, yet bitter smile.
"Has Masterson seen the design?" she
asked. "And does he like it?
"Like it" the "sculptor began, and
stopped abruptly, casting a hard look at
his wife. A latent itritation edged tris
look, which seemed to comprehend every
detail of her untidy person, and express
ed a distaste approaching active dislike.
He shook his broad shoulders as though
to dismiss her questions, and turned his
back on her. Instant resentment ap
peared in the woman's eager eyes and
compressed lips.
"I think it is unworthy of you," she
said impetuously. "It is not up to the
level of your work."
The artist moved toward his statute
as though to veil it from this unwelcome
criticism.
"Fortunately your opinion, my dear,
is not of prime importance," he said in
differently.
"You used to value it,' she flashed at
him. "And you trusted to it, once!'
His-suppressed smile stung her almost
beyond control.
"At least you seemed it may have
been only pretense, like the rest."
"My dear Martha, are wo going to
quarrel and pary, over what?" 7.
"Q jarre'!" 6he stopped and bit her
thin under lip. "It seems that we can
not speak to one another without quar
reling." "Let me suggest, my dear, that we
keep in future to our different eides of
the line, and meet, when we do meet, on
common ground. , You have your own
occupations I my work. Let us not
interfere"
To be Conticued.
-
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