"But look!" she cried in warning.
Abbott looked.
A woman was coming serenely down the path from the wooded promontory, a
woman undeniably handsome in a cedar-tinted linen dress, exquisitely
fashioned, with a touch of vivid scarlet on her hat and a most tantalizing
flash of scarlet ankle. It was Flora Desimone, fresh from her morning bath
and a substantial breakfast. The errand that had brought her from
Aix-les-Bains was confessedly a merciful one. But she possessed the
dramatist's instinct to prolong a situation. Thus, to make her act of
mercy seem infinitely larger than it was, she was determined first to cast
the Apple of Discord into this charming corner of Eden. The Apple of
Discord, as every man knows, is the only thing a woman can throw with any
accuracy.
The artist snatched up his brushes, and ruined the painting forthwith, for
all time. The foreground was, in his opinion, beyond redemption; so, with
a savage humor, he rapidly limned in a score of impossible trees, turned
midday into sunset, with a riot of colors which would have made the
Chinese New-year in Canton a drab and sober event in comparison. He hated
Flora Desimone, as all Nora's adherents most properly did, but with a
hatred wholly reflective and adapted to Nora's moods.
"You have spoiled it!" cried Celeste. She had watched the picture grow,
and to see it ruthlessly destroyed this way hurt her. "How could you!"
"Worst I ever did." He began to change the whole effect, chuckling audibly
as he worked. Sunset divided honors with moonlight. It was no longer
incongruous; it was ridiculous. He leaned back and laughed. "I'm going to
send it to L'Asino, and call it an afterthought."
"Give it to me."
"What?"
"Yes."
"Nonsense! I'm going to touch a match to it. I'll give you that picture
with the lavender in bloom."
"I want this."
"But you can not hang it."
"I want it."
"Well!" The more he learned about women the farther out of mental reach
they seemed to go. Why on earth did she want this execrable daub? "You may
have it; but all the same, I'm going to call an oculist and have him
examine your eyes."
"Why, it is the Signorina Fournier!"
In preparing studiously to ignore Flora Desimone's presence they had
forgotten all about her.
"Good morning, Signora," said Celeste in Italian.
"And the Signore Abbott, the painter, also!" The Calabrian raised what she
considered her most deadly weapon, her lorgnette.
Celeste had her fancy-work instantly in her two hands; Abbott's were
occupied; Flora's hands were likewise engaged; thus, the insipid mockery
of hand-shaking was nicely and excusably avoided.
"What is it?" asked Flora, squinting.
"It is a new style of the impressionist which I began this morning,"
soberly.
"It looks very natural," observed Flora.