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Updated: May 4, 2025
He held up his hand, as if to refuse to consider the least dissention. "There is nothing but that no other thing." All but Corthell listened attentively. The artist, however, turning his back, had continued to talk to Laura without lowering his tone, and all through Monsieur Gerardy's exhortation his voice had made itself heard.
"Now, Miss Dearborn, if you are ready," exclaimed Corthell, as he came up. He held the umbrella over her head, allowing his shoulders to get the drippings. They cried good-by again all around, and the artist guided her down the slippery steps. He handed her carefully into the hansom, and following, drew down the glasses.
"Of course, of course," she assented, as he held the picture in place. "Of course. I shall have it hung over again to-morrow." For some moments they remained standing in the centre of the room, looking at the picture and talking of it. And then, without remembering just how it had happened, Laura found herself leaning back in the Madeira chair, Corthell seated near at hand by the round table.
To contrast these men with such as Corthell was inevitable. She remembered him, to whom the business district was an unexplored country, who kept himself far from the fighting, his hands unstained, his feet unsullied.
If there was another side, if the brilliancy of his triumph yet threw a shadow behind it, Jadwin could ignore it. It was far from him, he could not see it. Yet for all this a story came to him about this time that for long would not be quite forgotten. It came through Corthell, but very indirectly, passed on by a dozen mouths before it reached his ears.
Then, tiring of Lady Macbeth, she took up Juliet, Portia, and Ophelia; each with appropriate costumes, studying with tireless avidity, and frightening Aunt Wess' with her declaration that "she might go on the stage after all." She even entertained the notion of having Sheldon Corthell paint her portrait as Lady Macbeth.
Evidently the collapse of the Helmick deal was in the air. All the city seemed interested. But from behind the heavy curtains that draped the entrance to the theatre proper, came a muffled burst of music, followed by a long salvo of applause. Laura's cheeks flamed with impatience, she hurried after Mrs. Cressler; Corthell drew the curtains for her to pass, and she entered.
"Even the odour of the sulphur matches cannot smother the quaint old perfume, distilled perhaps three centuries ago." An hour later Corthell left her. She did not follow him further than the threshold of the room, but let him find his way to the front door alone.
There was a moment's silence. Then slowly Laura, laying down her book, turned and faced him. "With many very, very happy returns of the day," said Sheldon Corthell, as he held towards her a cluster of deep-blue violets. Laura sprang to her feet, a hand upon her cheek, her eyes wide and flashing. "You?" was all she had breath to utter. "You?"
By slow degrees the companionship trended toward intimacy. At the various theatres and concerts he was her escort. He called upon her two or three times each week. At his studio entertainments Laura was always present. How Corthell asked himself did she regard the affair? She gave him no sign; she never intimated that his presence was otherwise than agreeable.
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