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He gave one look at Prochnow's face, drawn, haggard, black with disappointment and anger, and began to work himself out of his blouse. "Where is my hat?" he muttered wildly. "Where are you going?" asked Prochnow. His voice was hoarse. O'Grady looked at him a second time, to make sure who was speaking. "I got you into this, Ignace; and now I " "You did not," said Prochnow.
"A talent of the first order; more an out-and-out genius!" he concluded. Yes, it was Roscoe Orlando who had purchased Prochnow's pictures and thus enabled him to take quarters in the Burrow.
Was it all that Mr. Prochnow's lively little friend seemed to think? Prochnow, putting away his palette and brushes, grandly overlooked the late irruption of trivialities. He glanced across to Preciosa, and she felt that he was thanking her for having held herself quite aloof from them. Preciosa went away not completely reassured, yet on the whole pretty well pleased.
As Roscoe Orlando turned over Prochnow's sketches with a discontented hand he asked querulously where was the chic, the snap that he had hoped to see. No, no; the boy had done his best work already; he was on the down grade that was plain. "And then, all this allegory," objected Andrew. "It's too blind; it's too complicated. People can't stop to figure it out.
He had outlined two or three of his cartoons as well, and had even dashed out, on a small scale, the colour-scheme of the one that made the most immediate appeal. Little O'Grady, who had had all the trouble he anticipated with the chariot of Progress and a good deal more came in for a cup of Prochnow's potent, bewitching coffee.
In the library he brushed against Medora Joyce. "Oh, Dodie," he panted, "they're sacrificin' our little Preciosa to that big brute of a Morrell!" "I was afraid so," said Medora, with concern. "Stop it." "I'm going to!" said O'Grady. As he regained Prochnow's side Preciosa was just rising from the table, and Elizabeth Gibbons was slipping into her place.
"Go right away," Miss Gibbons thought she heard him say, in a tense undertone. The face of Kitty Gowan showed in the doorway, puzzled, protesting. Medora Joyce was behind, her hands full of parcels. "Go away?" repeated Mrs. Gowan. "What does this mean? Let me in at once." "Depart!" hissed Little O'Grady. "This is not Mr. Prochnow's day. Come to-morrow."
"Well, you're ready for one adventure, anyway," declared Preciosa, motioning toward the letter still held in Prochnow's brown, veined hand. She saw herself helping him into the saddle and passing him up his lance. "So I am," he acquiesced. He brought his eyes back from the large, pale, formidable Amazonian figures before him to the warm-hearted, warm-coloured little creature by his side.
"You're in a palace, sure," declared Little O'Grady, on the occasion of his first call upon the newcomer. This took place the third day of Prochnow's tenancy he had scarcely got his poor belongings into shape and had barely affixed his name to the door. But Little O'Grady cared nothing for conventions; he was ready to overstep any boundary, to break through any barrier.
She had but one idea, an idea a bit obscured by Prochnow's absence, yet she held it fast. "You will not marry me, then?" "No." "You have a reason?" "The best." "What is it?" "I am engaged to marry some one else." "Who is he?" Prochnow appeared in the hall, with Little O'Grady close behind him.
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