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Updated: May 4, 2025
The piano, an old style Chickering, stood diagonally across the far corner of the room, by the closed sliding doors, and Laura sat down here and began to play the "Mephisto Walzer," which she had been at pains to learn since the night Corthell had rendered it on her great organ in the art gallery.
She realised that once more she had acted upon impulse, and she even found time to wonder again how it was that when with this man her impulses, and not her reason prevailed so often. With Landry or with Curtis Jadwin she was always calm, tranquilly self-possessed. But Corthell seemed able to reach all that was impetuous, all that was unreasoned in her nature.
Monsieur Gerardy stormed and fretted and insisted upon repeating certain scenes over and over again. By ten o'clock the actors were quite worn out. A little supper was served, and very soon afterward Laura made a move toward departing. She was wondering who would see her home, Landry, Jadwin, or Sheldon Corthell.
I don't want to change anything. Ah, here we are." The hansom drew up in front of the house. The maid stood in the vestibule in the light that streamed from the half-open front door, an umbrella in her hand. The hansom splashed away, and Corthell and Laura mounted the steps of the house. "Won't you come in?" she said. "There is a fire in the library."
This suite of rooms, facing the Lake Front, was what Corthell called "home," Whenever he went away, he left it exactly as it was, in the charge of the faithful Evans; and no mater how long he was absent, he never returned thither without a sense of welcome and relief. Even now, perplexed as he was, he was conscious of a feeling of comfort and pleasure as he settled himself in his chair.
When all was said and done, she had, after all, found more in Chicago than the clash and trepidation of empire-making, more than the reverberation of the thunder of battle, more than the piping and choiring of sweet music. First it had been Sheldon Corthell, quiet, persuasive, eloquent.
But he said no, and for a few seconds they stood under the vestibule light, talking. Then Corthell, drawing off his right-hand glove, said: "I suppose that I have my answer. You do not wish for a change. I understand. You wish to say by that, that you do not love me. If you did love me as I love you, you would wish for just that a change.
Corthell, I had this deal on hand it was that wheat, Laura, I was telling you about this morning five million bushels of it, and I found out from my English agent that I could slam it right into a couple of fellows over there, if we could come to terms. We came to terms right enough. Some of that wheat I sold at a profit of fifteen cents on every bushel.
Landry Court was a young chevalier, pure as Galahad. Corthell was a beautiful artist-priest of the early Renaissance. Even Jadwin was a merchant prince, a great financial captain.
When Corthell came to see her on the Wednesday evening in question, Laura said to him, after a few moments, conversation in the drawing-room: "Oh, you remember the picture you taught me to appreciate the picture of the little pool in the art gallery, the one you called 'Despair'? I have hung it in my own particular room upstairs my sitting-room so as to have it where I can see it always.
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