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The three looked to be oppressed. Grief said sullenly, "I saw some of his things over in Stencil's gallery, and they're rotten." "Yes rotten," said Pennoyer. "Rotten," said Grief. "Oh, well," retorted Florinda, "if a man has a swell studio and dresses oh, sort of like a Willie, you know, you fellows sit here like owls in a cave and say rotten rotten rotten. You're away off. Pontiac's landscapes "
"I'll take the mug myself." "All right, Splutter," rejoined Grief meekly. "I'll keep the mug. But, still, I don't see why Billie Hawker " "I shall take the mug," reiterated Florinda firmly. "But I don't see why " "Let her alone, Grief," said Wrinkles. "She has decided that it is heroic. You can't move her now." "Well, who is going for the potato salad?" cried Pennoyer again.
"Certainly not," said Pennoyer sternly. "What are you talking about, Splutter?" demanded Wrinkles in an angry voice. "No, that won't go down," said Grief, in a resolute yet wistful tone. Florinda divested herself of her hat, jacket, and gloves, and put them where she pleased. "Got coffee, haven't you? Well, I'm not going to stir a step.
When Florinda had gone, Grief said, "Well, what was it?" Wrinkles looked curiously from his drawing-board. Pennoyer lit his pipe and held it at the side of his mouth in the manner of a deliberate man. At last he said, "It was two violets." "You don't say!" ejaculated Wrinkles. "Well, I'm hanged!" cried Grief. "Holding them in his hand and moping over them, eh?" "Yes," responded Pennoyer.
Upon the walls of the studio various labours of his life, in heavy gilt frames, contemplated him and the violets. At last Pennoyer burst impetuously in upon him. "Hi, Billie! come over and What's the matter?" Hawker had hastily placed the violets in the envelope and hurried it to his pocket. "Nothing," he answered. "Why, I thought " said Pennoyer, "I thought you looked rather rattled.
Later, when the cigarettes had become exhausted, Hawker volunteered to go after a further supply, and as he arose, a question seemed to come to the edge of Florinda's lips and pend there. The moment that the door was closed upon him she demanded, "What is that about the two violets?" "Nothing at all," answered Pennoyer, apparently much aggrieved.
"Nothing," said Wrinkles, exhibiting it face upward on the table. "Good-bye, Florinda." "Well, I've got two small pair," ventured Pennoyer hopefully. "Beat 'em?" "No good," said Sanderson. "Two pair aces up." "No good," said Hawker. "Three sevens." "Beats me," said Grief. "Billie, you are the fortunate man. Heaven guide you in Third Avenue!" Florinda had gone to the window.
He might have been thrusting with a sword. There was a knock at the door. "Come in." Pennoyer entered sheepishly. "Well?" cried Hawker, with an echo of savagery in his voice. He turned from the canvas precisely as one might emerge from a fight. "Oh!" he said, perceiving Pennoyer. The glow in his eyes slowly changed. "What is it, Penny?"
"Don't get my check until Monday morning, any time after ten!" he yelled, and flung a portfolio of mottled green into the danger zone of the casts. "Thunder!" said Pennoyer, sinking at once into a profound despair "Monday morning, any time after ten," murmured Wrinkles, in astonishment and sorrow.
Oh, no, you don't know what we mean! Oh, no! How about those violets, eh? How about 'em?" Hawker, with flushed and wrathful face, looked at Pennoyer. "Penny " But Grief and Wrinkles roared an interruption. "Oh, ho, Mr. Hawker! so it's true, is it? It's true. You are a nice bird, you are. Well, you old rascal! Durn your picture!" Hawker, menacing them once with his eyes, went away.
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