"There's three of them," said Grief in a hoarse whisper.
"Four, I tell you!" said Wrinkles in a low, excited tone.
"Four," breathed Pennoyer with decision.
They held fierce pantomimic argument. From the corridor came sounds of
rustling dresses and rapid feminine conversation.
Grief had kept his ear to the panel of the door. His hand was stretched
back, warning the others to silence. Presently he turned his head and
whispered, "Three."
"Four," whispered Pennoyer and Wrinkles.
"Hollie is there, too," whispered Grief. "Billie is unlocking the door.
Now they're going in. Hear them cry out, 'Oh, isn't it lovely!' Jinks!"
He began a noiseless dance about the room. "Jinks! Don't I wish I had a
big studio and a little reputation! Wouldn't I have my swell friends
come to see me, and wouldn't I entertain 'em!" He adopted a descriptive
manner, and with his forefinger indicated various spaces of the wall.
"Here is a little thing I did in Brittany. Peasant woman in sabots. This
brown spot here is the peasant woman, and those two white things are the
sabots. Peasant woman in sabots, don't you see? Women in Brittany, of
course, all wear sabots, you understand. Convenience of the painters. I
see you are looking at that little thing I did in Morocco. Ah, you
admire it? Well, not so bad--not so bad. Arab smoking pipe, squatting in
doorway. This long streak here is the pipe. Clever, you say? Oh, thanks!
You are too kind. Well, all Arabs do that, you know. Sole occupation.
Convenience of the painters. Now, this little thing here I did in
Venice. Grand Canal, you know. Gondolier leaning on his oar. Convenience
of the painters. Oh, yes, American subjects are well enough, but hard to
find, you know--hard to find. Morocco, Venice, Brittany, Holland--all
oblige with colour, you know--quaint form--all that. We are so hideously
modern over here; and, besides, nobody has painted us much. How the
devil can I paint America when nobody has done it before me? My dear
sir, are you aware that that would be originality? Good heavens! we are
not æsthetic, you understand. Oh, yes, some good mind comes along and
understands a thing and does it, and after that it is æsthetic. Yes, of
course, but then--well---- Now, here is a little Holland thing of mine;
it----"
The others had evidently not been heeding him. "Shut up!" said Wrinkles
suddenly. "Listen!" Grief paused his harangue and they sat in silence,
their lips apart, their eyes from time to time exchanging eloquent
messages. A dulled melodious babble came from Hawker's studio.
At length Pennoyer murmured wistfully, "I would like to see her."
Wrinkles started noiselessly to his feet. "Well, I tell you she's a
peach. I was going up the steps, you know, with a loaf of bread under my
arm, when I chanced to look up the street and saw Billie and Hollanden
coming with four of them."
"Three," said Grief.
"Four; and I tell you I scattered. One of the two with Billie was a
peach--a peach."
"O, Lord!" groaned the others enviously. "Billie's in luck."
"How do you know?" said Wrinkles. "Billie is a blamed good fellow, but
that doesn't say she will care for him--more likely that she won't."
They sat again in silence, grinning, and listening to the murmur of
voices.
There came the sound of a step in the hallway. It ceased at a point
opposite the door of Hawker's studio. Presently it was heard again.
Florinda entered the den. "Hello!" she cried, "who is over in Billie's
place? I was just going to knock----"
They motioned at her violently. "Sh!" they whispered. Their countenances
were very impressive.
"What's the matter with you fellows?" asked Florinda in her ordinary
tone; whereupon they made gestures of still greater wildness. "S-s-sh!"
Florinda lowered her voice properly. "Who is over there?"
"Some swells," they whispered.
Florinda bent her head. Presently she gave a little start. "Who is over
there?" Her voice became a tone of deep awe. "She?"
Wrinkles and Grief exchanged a swift glance. Pennoyer said gruffly, "Who
do you mean?"
"Why," said Florinda, "you know. She. The--the girl that Billie likes."
Pennoyer hesitated for a moment and then said wrathfully: "Of course she
is! Who do you suppose?"
"Oh!" said Florinda. She took a seat upon the divan, which was privately
a coal-box, and unbuttoned her jacket at the throat. "Is she--is
she--very handsome, Wrink?"
Wrinkles replied stoutly, "No."
Grief said: "Let's make a sneak down the hall to the little unoccupied
room at the front of the building and look from the window there. When
they go out we can pipe 'em off."
"Come on!" they exclaimed, accepting this plan with glee.
Wrinkles opened the door and seemed about to glide away, when he
suddenly turned and shook his head. "It's dead wrong," he said,
ashamed.
"Oh, go on!" eagerly whispered the others. Presently they stole
pattering down the corridor, grinning, exclaiming, and cautioning each
other.
At the window Pennoyer said: "Now, for heaven's sake, don't let them see
you!--Be careful, Grief, you'll tumble.--Don't lean on me that way,
Wrink; think I'm a barn door? Here they come. Keep back. Don't let them
see you."
"O-o-oh!" said Grief. "Talk about a peach! Well, I should say so."
Florinda's fingers tore at Wrinkle's coat sleeve. "Wrink, Wrink, is that
her? Is that her? On the left of Billie? Is that her, Wrink?"
"What? Yes. Stop punching me! Yes, I tell you! That's her. Are you
deaf?"