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The past faded away; his wrongs became vapors. He saw only his brother, the boy he had loved so devotedly, Arty, his other self, his scholarly other self. Why blame Arthur? He, Paul, was the fool. "Don't take it like that, Arty," he said. The other's hand stretched out blindly toward the voice. "Ah, great God, Paul!" "I know! Perhaps I've brooded too much."
"Why not have three of us say me and you and Mrs. Arty talk the play, just like we was acting it?" He enthusiastically forced the plan on Mr. Wrenn. He pounded down-stairs and brought up Mrs. Arty. He dashed about the room, shouting directions.
"They're heasier managed hon a 'ot night," and she soon had one burning on the table and another on the mantel. "I vant to see vat's to be done," she continued, "because I must give yer a 'arty lift him a jiffy and be back to my children hagain." Then going to the sick woman she took her hand and felt her pulse. "'Ow do yer find yerself, mum?" she asked.
Let the colors be kind of arty and tea-roomy orange chairs, and orange and blue table, and blue Japanese breakfast set, and some place, one big flat smear of black bang! Oh. Another play I wish we could do is Tennyson Jesse's 'The Black Mask. I've never seen it but Glorious ending, where this woman looks at the man with his face all blown away, and she just gives one horrible scream."
William Wrenn, known as Billy, glanced triumphantly at Miss Proudfoot, who was his partner against Mrs. Arty and James T. Duncan, the traveling-man, on that night of late February. His was the last bid in the crucial hand of the rubber game. The others waited respectfully. Confidently, he bid "Nine on no trump." "Good Lord, Billl" exclaimed James T. Duncan. "I'll make it." And he did.
Oh, my dear chap!" as Val's silence stiffened, "no one suggests that Laura's ever looked at the fellow! But facts are facts, and Hyde is Hyde. I'm not a bit surprised to hear he has Jew blood in him," Rowsley continued, warming to the discussion: he was a much keener judge of character that the tolerant and easy-going Val. "That accounts for the arty strain in him.
People like my aunts and Launcelot, only for the most part in a different social grade. You won't live in an old manor like this, but among gimcrack little "arty" houses. You will hear everything you regard as sacred laughed at and condemned, and every kind of nauseous folly acclaimed, and you must hold your tongue and pretend to agree.
Oh, tell me, have you ever read anything by Harold Bell Wright or Myrtle Reed, Mr. Wrenn? They write such sweet stories." He had not, but he expressed an unconquerable resolve so to do, and with immediateness. She went on: "Mrs. Arty told me you had a real big library nearly a hundred books and Do you mind? I went in your room and peeked at them." "No, course I don't mind!
Arty if she don't take to you she don't mind letting you know she won't take you in at all; but if she does she'll worry over the holes in your socks as if they was her husband's. All the bunch there drop into the parlor when they come in, pretty near any time clear up till twelve-thirty, and talk and laugh and rush the growler and play Five Hundred. Just like home! "Mrs.
Arty and me?" "I should be pleased to." She was prim but trusting about it. "Oh, listen, Mr. Wrenn; did you ever tramp along the Palisades as far as Englewood? It's lovely there the woods and the river and all those funny little tugs puffing along, way way down below you why, I could lie on the rocks up there and just dream and dream for hours.
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