Any
bluntness, any ruggedness, rather than another month like that of the past
holiday season.
He took a step away and looked to one side, toward the couch where his hat
and coat were lying.
"Go, if you will," she said. "And go as soon as you like. You are a
contemptible, cold-hearted ingrate. You have grudged me every minute of
your company, everywhere--and every second you have given me here. If I
have been foolish it is over now, and there shall be nothing to record my
folly." She stepped to the easel and hurled the canvas to the floor, where
it lay with palette and brushes.
Cope stood with his hat in his hand and his coat over his arm. He seemed to
see the open volume of some "printed play." After all, there was a type
which, even under emotional stress, gave a measure of instinctive heed to
structure and cadence. Well, if there was relief for her in words, he could
stand to hear her speak for a moment or two more, not longer.
"One word yet," she said in a panting voice. "Your Arthur Lemoyne. That
preposterous friendship cannot go on for long. You will tire of him; or
more likely he will tire of you.
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