Karl threw himself moodily into a chair as Olga fled into the outer
studio, and sat there, not looking at his unwelcome visitor. Dr. Millar
seemed to find his dejection amusing. He allowed the silence to remain
undisturbed, while he puffed a cigarette. Then he said, half to himself,
half to Karl:
"Full of temperament, that woman, and pretty, too; extremely pretty."
"Yes, she is pretty," Karl acquiesced, without looking at him.
"It's a pity she doesn't love her husband," was the next cynical remark
that fell on Karl's ears.
He wheeled in his seat and looked at the visitor, who went on with
perfect coolness:
"How do I know? It was apparent when she fancied I had insulted her and
turned to you for protection."
Karl angrily slammed down an ash tray he had picked up in his nervous
fingers and began to pace the floor. Millar went on in a light tone:
"She does not love her husband. He must be a genius or a very
commonplace man. Marriage always is a failure with such men. Common men
live so low that women are afraid some one may steal into their lives at
night through a cellar window. Genius--well, genius lives on the top
floor, up toward the clouds, and with so many gloomy steps to climb and
no elevator, it's very uncomfortable for a pretty woman. Her ideal is
one easy flight of stairs to comfortable living rooms on the first
floor."
Karl maintained silence, and continued to walk the floor. He looked at
his watch and started toward the door of the reception-room leading into
the hall, which was locked.
"This is the second time I have seen madam's shoulders," Millar
remarked, casually, blowing cigarette rings in the air.
"What do you mean?" Karl demanded, stung to speech by jealousy.
"Ah, I saw them first in Paris, at the Louvre, fashioned of snow-white
marble. They were the shoulders of Venus. Am I right, Karl?"
"I don't know," the artist snapped.
"Well, you must take my word for it, then," Millar said lightly. "I have
seen both. And since Alcamenes I have known but one sculptor who could
form such wonderful shoulders."
"Who?" Karl asked, turning to him.
"Prosperity," Millar replied, sententiously. "Such tender, soft,
exquisite curves are possible only to women who live perfectly. Madam
must be the wife of a millionaire."
Karl fell to pacing the floor again, glancing impatiently at the door
through which Olga had fled.
"Is she dressing?" asked Millar slyly.
"Yes," Karl answered nervously.
"Is there a mirror in your studio?"
"Yes."
"Madam must be very respectable," Millar said in an insinuating tone;
"she takes so long to dress."
"Your remarks are in very bad taste," Karl cried angrily, walking up
threateningly to his visitor.
Millar stood erect, without changing his expression of ironical
amusement, and said:
"Do you wish to offend me?"
"Yes," Karl snarled.
"Then you, too, must be respectable," the visitor said coolly, adding,
as Karl looked at him with wonder: "In a situation like this only a very
respectable man could behave with such infernal stupidity."
Karl was about to retort when the studio door opened and Olga entered.
He turned quickly toward her and she went to him without noticing
Millar.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Your husband will be here in ten minutes," Millar interposed.
Olga turned toward him and cried accusingly:
"Then you were not asleep in that chair when my husband was here. You
heard him say when he would return."
"Madam is mistaken. Feminine presentiment always feels the approach of
the husband ten minutes ahead of time. Were it not for those ten
minutes there would be more divorced women, but fewer locked doors."
As he spoke he walked over and unlocked the door leading into the hall,
then turned and looked at them calmly.
"Is this never to finish?" Olga asked.
"I tried to change the subject, but Karl would not let me," Millar
answered.
"I have not spoken a word," Karl protested.
"By your actions, Karl; by the way you jumped up, impatiently consulted
your watch, rushed to the door. Poor chap, he was afraid," he added to
Olga.
"Afraid!" Karl exclaimed.
"Yes, afraid that your husband would come before you finished dressing.
And you were right, Karl."
"Why, my dear Olga----" Karl began impatiently, when the other
interrupted him.
"Please, please, let us be logical," he urged. "Look at the situation.
The husband enters suddenly. 'Well, here I am, back again, my darling,'
he announces. 'Where is the picture? I must see the picture.' There is
none. Karl did not work on the picture. Your husband is worried; he does
not speak, but he is irritated. He wants to speak and the words stick in
his throat. You look at each other, unhappy. Nothing has happened, but
the mischief is done. What mischief? Appearances. Whatever you say makes
matters worse, and a compromising situation like this is never forgotten
by the husband. You go home together in silence."
"Ah, if it were like that," Karl broke in; "but we are not alone. You
are here."
Millar shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, that is it; I am here, and with one word I could dispel the
illusion," he acquiesced. "But I know myself; I am cursed with a
peculiar, sinister sense of humor, and I am afraid I would not say the
word. Hence, when the husband enters we are all silent. Then I say, 'I
regret to have arrived at such an inopportune moment.' I take my hat and
walk out, leaving you, madam, your husband and Karl."
He seemed to find keen pleasure in the possibility of forcing the two
into a position which would cause them suffering and weaken the
barriers of self-control they had built up around that boy and girl love
that had come back so vividly to both. Had they regarded him as merely
human it is certain that Karl would have kicked this cynical being out
of the studio, with his infernal innuendoes. But there was something
supernormal about him. He dominated both the artist and the wife, and
they were completely under his spell, struggle as they would to break
it. Olga shrank from the cruelty of their tormentor.
"If this is a jest it is a cruel one," she cried.
"True, madam. But there is another way. If you wish it I can be quite
truthful. Should your husband arrive I can tell him the portrait has not
been touched and ask his pardon."
"Pardon for what?"
"For having seen your shoulders."
"This is a trap," Olga cried, turning toward Karl for protection. "What
do you want? You overwhelm me with false insinuations. I hardly know you
five minutes, and I imagine I feel your long fingers at my throat."
"Other pretty women do not feel them quite so soon," he murmured,
bending toward her.
Enraged at the attitude of the man, Karl stepped toward him.
"Stop! I won't allow any more of this," he commanded.
The entrance of Heinrich checked his speech. The old servant said:
"The tailor has sent some evening clothes, Monsieur Karl, but they are
not yours."
"They are mine," interrupted the stranger.
"Yours?" Karl said in amazement.
"Yes; they were crushed in my trunk," the other said coolly. "I told the
tailor to press them and send them here for the evening. I must dress,
as I am invited to the ball of one of the most beautiful women in the
city to-night at the residence of the Duke of Maranese."
"But the Duke is not living there any more," Olga interposed. "He is in
Madrid."
"Yes, I know that; I met the Duke in Paris."
"He has sold his house to us. We are living there now, and the ball is
given by me," she went on.
The man looked at her, his black eyes seeming to burn through her own.
Shrinking, fearful, fascinated, Olga was held in the spell of those
eyes.
"Was I mistaken? Am I not invited?" he asked.
"Yes, you are invited," she faltered.
She could not resist the subtle influence of the man, even while every
instinct of good made her recoil from him. With a triumphant smile he
bowed and said softly:
"Madam, a little while ago you asked me what I wanted. It was your
invitation that I wanted. I thank you."
"But my husband," Olga said, already repenting of the advantage she had
given him.
"Oh, he will be delighted to see me," the stranger assured her
confidently. "He speculates in wheat; I have information that will be of
value to him. The crop has turned out worse than was expected. You love
your husband; you should be happy that the wheat crop is bad."
"I am," Olga assented. "We want wheat to be bad because the price will
go up."
"Your husband will make another fortune, and you will have the new gown
you want."
"How do you know I want a new gown?" Olga asked, falling in once more
with the devil's humor of the man.
"I observe that you have a new hat, and a very pretty one; surely you
want a new gown."
"You must be married."
"Married! not I," he exclaimed. "A wife is like a monocle; it looks
well, but one sees more clearly without it."
"Your views seem against marriage; why?" Olga asked.
The tone of Millar became suddenly serious as he said:
"You want Karl to marry; I want to prevent him from marrying."
"Please let's not discuss that," Karl protested.
"Pardon me, Karl, but an artist should not marry," he went on. "Your
future wife will swear to stand by your side for life--until the wedding
day--and the day after she will be in your way."
"Not the true wife," Olga declared.
"Ah, but the true wife is always the other fellow's wife," he answered.
Millar had talked so absorbingly that Karl and Olga unconsciously drew
near to each other. They stood in front of the high pulpit back of the
arm-chair, each one resting a hand on the chair back. Although they were
quite unaware of it, their position suggested that of a young couple,
before the altar, about to be joined in wedlock. The cynical humor of
the situation struck Millar, who walked around them, stood in the chair
and leaned over the back, like a preacher in his pulpit.
"You are a pessimist," Olga declared, looking up at him.
"No, not a pessimist; only practical."
"I agree with you," Karl said. "A man should stay at home."