  Against the heroic proportions of the back drop, which represented a peculiarly violent sunset over the caÑons of Colorado, was a group in such incongruous attire that Dangerfield, accustomed as he was to the eccentricities of the studio, halted in astonishment. King O’Leary, crowned with a battered helmet and draped in a white sheet to represent a toga, was in an attitude of deferential amazement before Flick, who occupied the center of the tableau in Tootles’ dress suit, which shrunk below the elbows and positively refused to descend to the ankles. To the left, Sassafras, stripped to the waist, with the doctored pelt of the Harlem bear flung over one shoulder, and a wig of pendent black horsehair, was on one knee, rolling his eyes upward in ecstatic tribute. Behind appeared Mr. Cornelius in the most Elizabethan of frilled coats and the most Victorian of trousers, while Pansy, in powdered wig and black-silk knee-breeches, was the most charming of beaux. “Do you seize the idea?” said Tootles proudly, his head on one side in paternal affection for the group which had sprung Minerva-wise from his brain. Dangerfield resorted hastily to his pocket-handkerchief and surreptitiously flicked away a tear of agony, which all his self-control could not keep down. “It’s only a preliminary sketch,” said Tootles hastily, “for my monumental decoration, ‘The Ages Contemplating the Apotheosis of the Well-dressed Man.’” “There’s millions in it “Holy cats! Drop that arm!” exclaimed Tootles, who rushed to the rescue of the pride of the wardrobe. During this diversion, Dangerfield was able to recover himself sufficiently to present a grave mask. “What does Sassafras represent?” he asked, stroking his chin. “Sassafras is primitive man,” said Tootles, assuming the attitude of a lecturer. “O’Leary represents Rome—CÆsar or some other classic chap, you know. The baron is the Spirit of the Middle Ages, and Pansy is the celebrated Beau Brummel. It’s symbolic, of course.” “And Wilder is the Apotheosis of the Well-dressed Man?” said Dangerfield gravely, contemplating the thin limbs, which seemed to have sprouted from the legs and arms of Wimpfheimer & Goldfinch’s glorified dress suit. “No, no,” said Tootles hastily; “Flick is only a clothes-horse for the time being.” Flick objected strongly to this characterization, and while his feelings were being soothed, Dangerfield turned the easel and inspected the canvas. “I’m afraid I’m in a terrible mix,” said Tootles, scratching his head and looking in despair at the canvas, which had certain marked resemblances to the first days of Creation, when the earth and the waters were still mingled. “How are you going at it?” said Dangerfield, peering into the confusion of colors. “Diving in, head foremost, I guess,” said Tootles, rather discouraged. “Have you made any sketches, charcoal sketches?” “Oh, yes; dozens.” He returned with heaped-up arms. Dangerfield sorted them rapidly, humming to himself. Bits of drawing caught his attention, a free, felicitous line here and there evoking an approving grunt. “Not so bad—this is more like it—too worked over—this means something—good! But you must get your composition first, my boy.” “I know that,” said Tootles ruefully; “but then, I’m new to decoration, you see.” “Harder than you thought, eh?” Tootles nodded darkly. “Here, give me a canvas,” said Dangerfield, selecting a charcoal; and then, unable to hold in any longer, he burst into a shout and began to rock back and forth, convulsed with laughter. This cleared the atmosphere and brought them all down from the rarified heights to a working basis. When Inga, anxious at his continued absence, came in a moment later, she found Dangerfield chuckling to himself, oblivious to everything but the joy of the moment, rearranging the group, as excited as though he were launched on a masterpiece. “The first point is the Well-dressed Man,” he began, with splendid gravity. “We must place him in a way to dominate everything else—a pedestal, or better still, a throne—no, no; he mustn’t be sitting.” “The cut of the trousers is most important,” said Flick, who had already formed ambitious plans for the marketing. “Right—you must stand on an elevation, a flight of steps, perhaps. A box on the model-stand will do for the moment. Now we center it in a triangle, Sassafras at the left, reclining, one leg out, back to us—hold that, good line—other side, what?—the Sphinx—Adam and the Sphinx—not a bad idea!” “Do you want me full-face or side view?” said Flick, while Sassafras took his pose and King O’Leary was draped in a semi-recumbent position to fill the lower right half. “There!” He gave them a signal, and stood off grinning, his head on one side, contemplatively, as they crowded about the composition. “Thought of taking him three-quarters, with hat and gloves resting on his cane in front—see, like this!” said Tootles meekly. “Full-front is better for commercial purposes,” said Flick. “How so?” “When they use it for magazine and newspaper ads., they can print ‘$47.50’ over the shirt-front. That would be very effective.” “Vandal!” said Tootles indignantly. “This is intended for mural decoration only—like something dignified and inspiring—over a bar.” “Still, if the dress suit is to be held up as the ultimate expression of grace,” said Dangerfield, looking over at Inga, “it ought to be full-front.” “Absolutely,” said King O’Leary, convinced. “But I want to get the high hat in, somehow,” said Tootles doubtfully. “Beside, it gives us two chances to sell it. I can be practical also.” “Wait.” Dangerfield ran over the canvas and began hurriedly to draw in the three figures as determined upon. Then he burst into renewed peals of laughter, waving them back as they pressed forward curiously to watch his progress. “There!” He gave them a signal, and stood off grinning, his head on one side, contemplatively, as they crowded about the composition. Above the idealized figure of the Well-dressed Man, flanked in servile admiration by the Sphinx and Primitive Man, an Angel of Victory, floating down, after the uncomfortable manner of angels of Victory, was triumphantly blowing on a trumpet sustained by one hand, while with the other she prepared to crown the Modern Man, not with a wreath but with an immaculate silk hat, which was held just over his brow. The face of the “Cracky!” said O’Leary, gazing in awe. “Wimpfheimer will weep for joy,” said Flick, delighted. Tootles gazed at Dangerfield as the pickets of the Grand Army used to come to startled salute at the sudden apparition of the Little Corporal. “You must sign it, too,” he said, in a burst of fairness. “It’ll be a riot,” said Flick, seeing visions of a golden shower. “We’ll work it up until we have the whole clothes-aristocracy fighting each other for it.” “That’s a beginning,” said Dangerfield, who enjoyed the satire more than he dared show. “Beau Brummel can be about left center, examining him through a lorgnon, or better, indicating him to a belle in a powdered wig.” “You do think there ought to be woman-interest?” said Tootles. “Sure! Appeal to the women—get the women’s periodicals,” said Flick. “I think so,” said Dangerfield, setting his lips. “Gives us a better chance at color. But start on this; that will come later.” When he had returned to the studio, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, which were wet with repressed emotion. Inga, delighted to see him in this mood, stood smiling. “It’s the most wonderful take-off,” he said, at last, when he could get breath. “You don’t understand. I have made it a caricature of a superhuman ass I know—Tomlinson—who thinks he can decorate. It’ll be the death of him when it comes out.” “You had a lot of fun directing them,” she said, glad to find even this expedient to interest him. The boisterous mood left him. “Lucky devils,” he said, with the smile still lingering about the corners of his mouth. “Wonder if they know their luck?” An expression of great kindness came to soften his face, as he stood there reflecting, which held her eyes and brought a smile of tenderness to them too. For him, the darkling walls, the strident, contending city no longer existed, the hard barriers of the present rolling away before the rise of remembered scenes—glorious attics and tables set with the appetite of youth. “Reminds me of the time when we painted socks on Quinny’s legs so that he could go out and call on a countess. What rackets we used to cut up then! And weren’t we sure of the future! Well, that was something—to believe, even for a few years. The young are all geniuses. Why, Inga, I used to walk to the top of Montmartre just to look down over Paris and say to myself, ‘Some day, all that, glittering below there, will know who I am!’” He shook his head, and added in a lower voice: “I used to think, in those days, I was going to be a great man.” “You are.” She came to the side of the armchair into which he had sunk, and stood with her hand upon his arm. “What?” he said, startled from his revery by the sound of her voice. “You have the big thing in you!” she said insistently. “I knew it from the first moment.” He shook his head again. “No; there are some who think I had—but I know better, I know—I know!” he said, with a rising emphasis. “That’s the terrible time in the life of an artist, when he realizes he can go so far—and no farther. That’s when he pays for all the triumphs others envy.” “I won’t have it so “You have made a spot for dreams here,” he said, at length. “I have only just begun,” she said confidently. “Don’t!” he said, in a low voice, understanding her. “It’s not fair to you; it cannot be done.” She smiled again, a smile that seemed to draw him up into her arms like a tired child, and laid her hand gently over his forehead. “We shall see.” “Good heavens! Haven’t you anything better to do in life,” he said, all at once, “than to believe in derelicts?” She did not answer for a moment, looking beyond him with a lost glance which he had noticed once or twice before. Then she answered slowly. “But that—that makes me happy—to give.” “Inga, do I remind you of any one?” he said, with a suddenness that startled her. “Why do you say that?” she said, drawing away and frowning. “I feel it. Just now, as you were looking, and many times when we were arranging the room I had the feeling—a strange feeling—almost as though there were some one else here with us—that all this—well, how shall I say—that you had been here before——” “Why do you say that?” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I haven’t asked any questions, have I?” “You can—and besides, you won’t need to, soon,” he said, his curiosity aroused by the answer her evasion implied. “No, no,” she said emphatically; “what has happened has nothing to do with it. We are what we are to each other. All the rest—what’s happened before—we want to be free of that. What right has that to come into your life again? That’s what’s rare in a friendship, to begin all fresh—isn’t it?” “You are queer!” he said, gazing at her profoundly, with a growing personal curiosity awakened by the intensity which she had put into this unusually long speech. “Why?” “So I am not to know anything about you?” She faced him a long moment, and, despite all his curiosity, he could not divine what was passing behind her eyes. “Wonder if I shall ever see into those eyes?” he said, wandering from his question. His gaze rested a moment on the sensitive nostrils and the delicate mouth with its poised upper lip; and, suddenly, he said, as though noticing it for the first time: “You can be beautiful when you want to—why don’t you?” Then he laughed and said in a lighter tone, “Inga, if I were ten years younger, I’d be madly in love with those eyes of yours.” “Would that help?” she said, her eyes filling with a sudden compassionate gentleness. This frank question threw him into a turmoil. He seemed suddenly recalled to himself—to the imminence “Inga, whatever you do, don’t get to caring for me—do you hear?” he said vehemently, with the stricken intensity of his disordered moods. Then each seemed struck with the strangeness and the significance of what they had been saying. He repeated: “Do you hear—do you understand—not that!” She looked at him, yet across her eyes, as across her soul, the same misty curtain seemed to intervene. Then she shrugged her shoulders, as much as to lay the decision on the lap of fate. “It will only bring you suffering,” he said roughly, almost angrily. “Yes, perhaps.” She nodded, admitting its truth, and her face clouded before a vision starting out of the shadows. Her arms drew closer about her body, while a shiver ran through it—a premonition perhaps. She repeated: “Yes, perhaps.” |
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