One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 9

was dressed in a long cloak, grayish-brown, with gray hat and veil. Her tall figure loomed duskily in the back of the elevator. She was speaking to the elevator boy, who stood with his hand on the rope and slid-to the door as Derring entered.

“This is my reception afternoon, Tom. If visitors ask for me, you can show them directly to the studio.”

“Yes, Miss Gordon,” returned the boy.

“Third, please,” said Derring. His newspaper life was teaching him to think and act quickly. He must give her time to get at work. He stepped out at the third floor and the door was slammed behind him.

He could spend half an hour looking over the things on this floor. It would al] work in some time—if he were promoted, as he hoped to be. His position at present included a variety of work. He was liable to be called on to write a column on any subject—from bacteria and the Lake water, to Art and its outlook in Chicago. His column to-day was “The Private Studios Connected with the Art Institute.”

As he had turned the corner at Michigan Avenue he had caught sight of a roll of paper whirling lightly across the open space in front of the Institute. A woman in a gray cloak was battling with the wind and looking despairingly after the hurrying roll. It was the work of a moment for him to dart through the crowd of teams, rescue it, and receive murmured thanks from the gray veil.

Now, by the moment's chance in the elevator, he had learned that she was one of the artists he had come to interview. He would wait half an hour. Then he would look her up. She would at least be civil to him. It was a lucky chance.

She was seated with her back to the door, in the light of the north window. She turned her head from her work with a look of inquiry. The face was older than he had fancied through the folds of the veil.

She half rose from her seat, her hands full of brushes and color-tubes.

“Pray do not rise,” he said. “If you will kindly go on working, I shall feel less that I am intruding.”

He explained his errand and asked permission to look about the studio and take notes. He asked the permission very humbly. He had not accustomed himself to the idea that the public likes to be interviewed and written up. The slight hesitation with which she gave the permission seemed to him natural and fitting.

“In fact,” she said, smiling, “I suppose I ought to be glad to have you; it will advertise my work.”

She went on with her work and they carried on a desultory conversation. Derring wandered about the studio, taking notes and pausing here and there. A sudden exclamation caused her to look up. He had turned a water-color sketch to the light and was examining it.

“It is Ashton Pond?” he said.

“Yes. Do you know it?”

“My home is there. It seems strange to see it here—out of place.”

“I like to have it. It makes summer and the East nearer.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Do you go there?”

“I have spent the last three summers there,” she replied.

“And I have not been home for the last four. I've spent the vacations away.”

They fell to talking of mutual acquaintances and places of interest. She had heard of Seth Kinney and she knew the wood-road. The studio became to Derring a very homelike place. They two were shut in, alone, in the midst of the quiet. The great, practical city roared outside, but they did not hear it. He did not realize that she showed the tact of a woman of the world in guiding the conversation. It seemed to him spontaneous and natural.

When she fell silent he started in dismay, looking at his watch. “I am keeping you—and the article must be in by two.”

She gave him her hand at parting with the cordiality of an old friend.

As he hurried up Wabash Avenue pictures of the wood-road flitted before him. He heard the rustle of the leaves and saw the green moss and the trailing lines of partridge-berry. And in and out of the picture moved the figure of the artist—in its soft grays and browns. She fitted the scene; she was a part of it; yet when he tried to remember how she looked, he could not recall even the color of her eyes. She eluded his search, and in her stead he saw the sun shining through swaying leaves and falling on the vines and berries.

“Look out there!” The voice was loud and important.

Derring felt himself drawn swiftly back from the advancing cable car. He pulled himself together, with a word of thanks to the incensed policeman, and devoted himself in earnest to the dangers of the Madison and State Street crossing.