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Nor even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a man, such a friend, never had she imagined there was in him such kindness, such patience, such gentleness, such comprehension, such virile sense and sympathy. And never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anything disquieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.
After a moment he made the effort to speak: "I am trying to get well to start again better live more nobly. ... Take your chance, too." "If you wish, Drene." "Yes. I was not very well. I had been ill very a long while ... And you are not to clean the automatic.... Only your own-soul.... Ask help.... You'll get it..... I did.... And all that is true what we believed as boys.... I know. I've seen.
That Cecile White went about more or less with the sculptor Drene was a nine days' gossip among circles familiar to them both, and was forgotten as are all wonders in nine days. Some of his acquaintances recalled what had been supposed to be the tragedy of his life, mentioning a woman's name, and a man's Drene's closest friend.
Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an armchair toward him and seated himself. "It's many years," repeated Graylock. "I expected you to do something before this." "Were you uneasy?" sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing that Graylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man who deals a premature and useless blow.
But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place; a star overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass above; otherwise gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed in wet clothes, a narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow. "It's a long time, Drene." Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.
"As a matter of fact," he said, "I happened to be cleaning an automatic revolver when you called up." "What a gay employment for Christmas night! Is that your idea of celebrating?" "There happens to be nothing else for me to do tonight." "But there is. You are requested to make a call." "On whom?" he asked, quietly. "On Mr. Drene."
"She's some girl," added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled figure, and then half turning to include the model, who had seated herself on the lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the composition sketched in by Drene for the facade of the new opera.
"Drene," he said, "is one of those fussers who jellify when hurled on their necks the kind that ask that kind of girl to marry them after she's turned down everything else they suggest."
Or," he added, "There is a harder punishment." "What is it?" "To give her up." "Yes," said Drene, "that is harder. But I can make it even harder than that. I can make it as hard for you as you made it for me. I can let you live through it." He laughed, fisted in his pocket, drew out the lumpy automatic and leisurely pushed the lever to "safe."
"So," continued the other, confident, "when she recovers from a natural and childlike infatuation for you she'll marry somebody... Possibly even such a man as Graylock might make her happy. You can't ever tell about such men at the eleventh hour." Drene turned his eyes on him. There was no trace of color in his face. "Aren't you pretty damned charitable?" "Charitable?
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