"Don't be an ass, Gordon," I told him, lighting my pipe.
"All right, it's your own funeral. But don't come to me, afterwards, and weep on my shirtfront, that's all. Women get over the loss of a husband, they even become reconciled to the death of a baby, sometimes. And this one has music in her soul, and for ever and a day she is going to deplore the song that fled from her lips. She'll always be unhappy and you'll have to keep on consoling, and the freedom of your thoughts will vanish, and, when you try to write, you will have her and her miseries always before you. Then you will shed tears on your typewriter instead of producing anything. Better give Frieda some money for her and go fishing. Don't come back until the Milliken woman sends a postal telling you that the coast is clear."
"I know nothing about fishing," I answered.
"Then go and learn."
"You're talking arrant nonsense," I informed him.
"I am giving you the quintessence of solid wisdom," he retorted. "But now I'll tell you about her posing for me. I'm not doing this for your sake or hers, but because she has a really interesting head, and I know myself. I can get a good picture out of her, and I'll employ her for about three weeks. That'll be plenty. After that, I expect to go away and stay with the Van Rossums in the country. While Mrs. Dupont is busy posing for me, you and Frieda can look up another job for her. Let me see; I might possibly be able to pass her on to some other studio, if she takes to posing, properly."
I put my pipe down, intending to strike while the iron was hot.
"Come in with me," I told him.
"Of course you understand that in some ways she's going to be a good deal of a nuisance," he said hurriedly. "The baby squalling when I've just happened to get into my stride and the mother having to retire to feed the thing. But never mind, she's got quite a stunning face."
I knocked at her door, although I could see her sitting at the window with the baby in her arms.
"Please don't trouble to get up," I said. "My friend Gordon happens to need a model; he's thinking of a picture of a mother and child and has told me that, if you could pose for him, he would be glad to employ you. It wouldn't last very long, but you would have the baby with you. By the way, painters have to think very hard when they're at work and so they can't talk much at the same time, so that models have to keep very still. I know you won't mind that, because it's part of the work."
The top button of her waist was open. Instinctively her hand went up to it and covered the very small expanse of white neck that had been revealed.
"A model!" she exclaimed huskily. "I – I don't know – "
Gordon's face looked as if it was graven in stone.
"It is just for the face and hands," he said coldly. "It will be a picture of a woman sitting at an open window; just as you were when we came in. Of course, if you don't care to – "
"Oh! Indeed, I shall be very glad and – and grateful," she answered, very low. "I will do my best to please you."
"Thanks! I shall be obliged, if you will come on Monday morning at ten."
"Certainly. I shall be there without fail," she answered.
"Very well. I am glad to have met you, Mrs. Dupont. David, I wish I could dine with you at Camus, this evening, but I have an appointment to meet some people at Claremont. Good-by."
He bowed civilly to Frances Dupont, waved a hand at me, and was gone.
"Gordon is a tip-top painter," I told her. "His ways are sometimes rather gruff, but you mustn't mind them. He means all right."
"Oh! That makes no difference. Some of my teachers were pretty gruff, but I paid no attention. I only thought of the work to be done."
"Of course, that's the only thing to keep in mind," I answered.
"Yes, and I am ever so much obliged to you," she said gratefully. "You're the best and kindest of friends."
With this I left her and returned to my room, hoping that Gordon wouldn't be too exacting with her, and thinking with much amusement of all his warnings and his fears for my safety. That's the trouble with being so tremendously wise and cynical; it doesn't make for optimism.
CHAPTER VI
A BIT OF SUNSHINE
The ignorance of modern man is deplorable and stupendous. The excellent and far-famed Pico della Mirandola, for one whole week, victoriously sustained a thesis upon "De Omne Scibile." Now we have to confess that human knowledge, even as it affects such a detail as women's raiment, is altogether too complicated for a fellow to pretend he possesses it all. The display windows of department stores or a mere glance at an encyclopedia always fill me with humility.
Frances sadly showed us some things she had pulled out of a trunk and, foolishly, I exclaimed upon their prettiness. She looked upon them, and then at me, with a rather pitiful air.
"I can't wear them now," she said, her lip quivering a little. "But this black one might do, if – "
This halting was not in her speech and merely represents my own limitations. She explained some of the legerdemain required by the garment, and Frieda told her of a woman, related to Eulalie, who was talented in juggling with old dresses and renovating them. This one looked exceedingly nice to me, just as it was, but I was pityingly informed that some things were to be added and others removed, before it could possibly be worn. The sleeves, as far as I could understand, were either too long or short; the shoulders positively superannuated and the skirt, as was evident to the meanest intellect, much too narrow, or, possibly, too wide.
Also, there was the absolute need of a new hat. They discussed the matter, and Frieda led her away to unexplored streets adjoining the East River. With great caution I warned the young woman, secretly directing her attention to Frieda's impossible headgear, but I received a confident and reassuring glance. After a time they returned with an ample hat-box adorned with one of the prominent names of the Ghetto, and pulled the thing out, having come to my room to exhibit to me the result of their excursion.
"How much do you think we paid for it?" asked Frieda, with a gleam of triumph.
"I can speak more judiciously, if Mrs. Dupont will be so kind as to put it on," I told her.
My request was immediately acceded to. I surveyed the hat from many angles and guessed that it had cost eighteen dollars. I was proudly informed that the price had been three twenty-seven, reduced from eight seventy-nine, and that they had entered every shop in Division Street before they had unearthed it.
"It is very nice and quiet," Frieda informed me. "There wasn't much choice of color, since it had to be black. I think it suits her remarkably well."
"It certainly does," I assented. "Oh, by the way, Frieda, you may be glad to hear that my publishers have accepted the 'Land o' Love' and are to bring it out very early next Spring. It is a very long time to wait. I am afraid that Jamieson, their Chief High Lord Executioner, is rather doubtful in regard to it. He's afraid it is somewhat of a risky departure from my usual manner and may disappoint my following, such as it is."
"Poor old Dave," said Frieda encouragingly. "Don't worry, I'm sure it will sell just like the others."
"I hope so, and now what do you say to celebrating that new hat by going over to Camus for dinner?"
"Oh! I couldn't think of such a thing!" exclaimed Frances Dupont. "In – in the first place it is much too soon – after – and then you know I haven't a thing to wear."
"In the first place, not a soul will know you at Camus," said Frieda