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Updated: June 29, 2025
Hi!" he cried, "there is Lucian Pontiac. Hi, Pontiac! Sit down here." A man with a tangle of hair, and with that about his mouth which showed that he had spent many years in manufacturing a proper modesty with which to bear his greatness, came toward them, smiling. "Hello, Pontiac!" said Hollanden. "Here's another great painter. Do you know Mr. Hawker? Mr. William Hawker Mr. Pontiac." "Mr.
"I tell you that if they look twice at you they can't fail to see it. And it's bad, too. Very bad. What's the matter with you? Haven't you ever been in love before?" "None of your business," replied Hawker. Hollanden thought upon this point for a time. "Well," he admitted finally, "that's true in a general way, but I hate to see you managing your affairs so stupidly."
Once he started to his feet with a cry of vexation. Looking back over his shoulder, he swore an insult into the face of the picture. He paced to and fro, smoking belligerently and from time to time eying it. The helpless thing remained upon the easel, facing him. Hollanden entered and stopped abruptly at sight of the great scowl. "What's wrong now?" he said. Hawker gestured at the picture.
Hollanden sprang to his feet and, filling a pipe, flung himself into the chair and began to rock himself madly to and fro. He puffed clouds of smoke. Hawker stood with his face in shadow. At last he said, in tones of deep weariness, "Well, I think I'd better be going home and turning in." "Hold on!" Hollanden exclaimed, turning his eyes from a prolonged stare at the ceiling, "don't go yet!
"You don't, eh?" cried Hollanden scornfully. "Well, let me tell you, young woman, there is a great deal of truth in it. Now, there's Hawker as good a fellow as ever lived, too, in a way, and yet he's an artist. Why, look how he treats look how he treats that poor setter dog!" "Why, he's as kind to him as he can be," she declared. "And I tell you he is not!" cried Hollanden. "He is, Hollie.
"Don't you find that your love sets fire to your genius?" asked Hollanden gravely. "No, I'm hanged if I do." Hollanden sighed then with an air of relief. "I was afraid that a popular impression was true," he said, "but it's all right. You would rather sit still and moon, wouldn't you?" "Moon blast you! I couldn't moon to save my life." "Oh, well, I didn't mean moon exactly."
Hollanden had watched the fingers of his friend as the match was scratched. "You're nervous, Billie," he said. Hawker straightened in his chair. "No, I'm not." "I saw your fingers tremble when you lit that match." "Oh, you lie!" Hollanden mused again.
"Oh, come now " he began nervously. "George Hollanden," said the voice at his shoulder, "you are not only disagreeable, but you are hopelessly ridiculous. I I wish you would never speak to me again!" "Oh, come now, Grace, don't don't Look! There's the stage coming, isn't it?" "No, the stage is not coming. I wish I wish you were at the bottom of the sea, George Hollanden. And and Mr. Hawker, too.
"You're so dev'lish clever!" said Hawker, with sullen irony. Hollanden was still regarding the distant dramatic situation. "And rivals, too! The woods must be crowded with them. A girl like that, you know. And then all that money! Say, your rivals must number enough to make a brigade of militia. Imagine them swarming around!
As the painter walked toward the door Hollanden cried to him: "Heavens! Of all pictures of a weary pilgrim!" His voice was very compassionate. Hawker wheeled, and an oath spun through the smoke clouds. "Where's Mr. Hawker this morning?" asked the younger Miss Worcester. "I thought he was coming up to play tennis?" "I don't know. Confound him!
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