It was early the next afternoon. Breen and Nielsen were arguing in the
former's studio: a large unusually well furnished and attractively
decorated West Fourteenth Street skylight room.
"Now, you clear out of here!" Breen was commanding. "She'll be here
right away."
"Sure she won't disappoint thee?" Nielsen mocked pleasantly.
"No, I saw her this morning and this noon for a moment, and she intends
keeping her royal promise."
"How about the rouge garment?"
"She hasn't had time to alter it."
"That won't make any difference, of course," Nielsen ventured in
provoking tones.
"Go on! Clear out of here!" Breen repeated.
"You painters!" sang Nielsen, as he backed toward the door.
"We're no worse than you fellows are," Breen retorted. "Besides, this
afternoon is no more and no less than an experiment in line with the
contract of our triumvirate. Your inning will come, especially as you
are writing a story, for which purpose--"
"I know," Nielsen admitted with cheerful slyness. "And I really need
Erna to help me with it."
"And Carstairs will have to contribute his share of the contract, unless
he persists in that 'count me out' air of his."
"Oh, he'll come around, in his own way," was Nielsen's confident
assurance. "I saw him this morning, by the way--the first time I've seen
him at Landsmann's in several days."
"How is he?"
"Unusually cheery and affable."
"He'll recover from that foolishness."
"I think so too, but--"
"Now, get out!" Breen commanded a third time. "You'll be gossipping here
forever."
Nielsen took hold of the door knob, smiled in an aggravating manner,
opened the door, bowed low and said in a droll tone: "Moral or unmoral,
but--?"
Breen followed him, but Nielsen escaped, and the painter slammed the
door. His mood changed instantly. He bustled around the studio, fixing
this and rearranging that object and eventually looked about with
satisfaction. He then approached a looking glass, readjusted his tie,
smoothed his hair with his hand and otherwise subjected himself to a
critical but self-satisfied examination, which, however, was cut short
by a knock at the door. He hurried over to the door and opened it. "Come
in!" he said cordially and stepped aside for Erna.
She was wearing her best clothes, which were very attractive on her.
Unfortunately, the only red in the picture was a profusion of ribbons on
her black hat and a neat tie--but fortunately, her red cheeks and lips
were not missing. Altogether, Erna was a seductive apparition.
Certainly, this was Breen's opinion too. "How charming you look, your
Ladyship!" he exclaimed.
"Do I?" she retorted, smiling.
"Oh decidedly, decidedly," and Breen bowed in anticipation of a pleasant
afternoon. Bringing all of his courtesy to the surface, he helped Erna
to remove her coat. She went over to the looking glass, laughed, cried:
"You've got a glass too," and took off her hat with careless ease.
"What do you mean?" demanded Breen, standing behind her and surveying
her reflection with open admiration.
"Nothin'," she returned rather impudently.
"A lovely girl that!" he added significantly.
"Think so?" she challenged.
"Decidedly," he repeated.
She shrugged her shoulders a little and smiled at him in the glass.
Breen's interest grew. He tried to put his hands on her shoulders, by
way of confidence, but Erna turned toward him with a quick supple
movement. Like the accomplished artist she was, she said nothing, not
even by way of reproach, but laughed again. He eyed her with still
franker admiration.
"Well?" she questioned.
"Oh, I know," he said, recollecting his rôle, and went on evasively:
"But you're not wearing your red dress or very much red?"
"What difference does that make? Maybe you'd rather have me come some
other time?"
"No, no! You stay right here, now that you've come. You'll do just as
well in that costume. The same Erna Vitek is inside it. But--er--"
"But what?"
"I won't attempt a color sketch of you in that dress. There, there,
forgive me--it's very charming, my dear, but-- Perhaps, I'll just make a
pencil sketch of you to-day. Artists ought to commence with pencil
sketches anyhow, until the characters of their subjects have had time to
properly enter their blood, so to speak. Which, of course, is all Greek
to you. Do you object, madame?"
"No, do me any way you like," she consented.
"Oh, if you feel that way about it," he hinted audaciously.
"Take care!" she warned.
Breen went over to the model throne and pretended to place the chair for
her. He was sorry that he had had to suggest even a pencil sketch of
her, but he was forced to attempt some part of their original agreement.
What is more, he had practically cast away all thought of "studying"
Erna, later to make his report before the triumvirate. She was too
interesting and magnetic an individual to be used for such a childish
purpose. "Come over here and sit down," he requested calmly.
Giving herself an unexpected air of modesty, she complied, at the same
time adding a prudish touch by fixing her skirt carefully as she sat
down. Breen was puzzled, but drew up a chair, took a pencil and sketch
book and seated himself. "I'm going ta draw you at close range," he
apologized. She smiled in encouragement.
Breen commenced drawing, very carelessly, it is true. Erna watched him
with innocent eyes. "Do I pose right?" she asked at length.
"Yes," he assured her.
She was silent.