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"I don't believe we'd better speak of her," he said, in awkward kindliness. "I want to," returned Wilmer. "I want to tell you how lucky you are." Again that shade of introspective bitterness clouded Marshby's face. "Yes," said he, involuntarily. "But how about her? Is she lucky?" "Yes," replied Jerome, steadily. "She's got what she wants.
"I want you to look as if you heard drums and fife," Jerome explained, with one of his quick smiles, that always wiped out former injury. But the flush was not yet out of Marshby's face, and he answered, bitterly, "I might run." "I don't mind your looking as if you'd like to run and knew you couldn't," said Jerome, dashing in strokes now in a happy certainty.
Jerome shrewdly knew that Marshby's telltale attitude was no unfamiliar one. "What have you been saying?" she asked, in laughing challenge, yet with a note of anxiety underneath. "I'm painting him in," said Wilmer; but as she came toward him he turned the canvas dexterously. "No," said he, "no. I've got my idea from this. To-morrow Marshby's going to sit."
If I were asked what kind of a world I'd like to live in, I'd say one where the corners of Mary's mouth keep quirked up all the time. Let's talk about Marshby's picture. It's going to be your Marshby." "What do you mean?" "Not Marshby's Marshby yours." "You're not going to play some dreadful joke on him?" Her eyes were blazing under knotted brows. "Mary!"
After the sitting, Wilmer went yawning forward, and with a hand on Marshby's shoulder, took him to the door. "Can't let you look at the thing," he said, as Marshby gave one backward glance. "That's against the code. Till it's done, no eye touches it but mine and the light of heaven." Marshby had no curiosity.
"Don't you want the picture?" "What are you going to do with it?" "Give it to you, I guess. For a wedding-present, Mary." "You mustn't say those things," said Mary, gravely. She went on working, but her face was serious. "It's queer, isn't it," remarked Wilmer, after a pause, "this notion you've got that Marshby's the only one that could possibly do? I began asking you first."
Wilmer, sketching him in, seemed to gain distinct impulse from the pose, and worked the faster. "Don't move," he ordered. "There, that's right. So, you see, you're the successful chap. I'm the failure. She won't have me." There was such feeling in his tone that Marshby's expression softened comprehendingly. He understood a pain that prompted even such a man to rash avowal.
"Shall you accept the consulate?" Wilmer asked, abruptly. Brought face to face with fact, Marshby's pose slackened. He drooped perceptibly. "Probably not," he said. "No, decidedly not." Wilmer swore under his breath, and sat, brows bent, marvelling at the change in him. The man's infirmity of will had blighted him.
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