One day it _did_ crash: the head-lines of the morning papers shouted the
catastrophe at me:--"The Monster forced to disgorge--Warrant out against
Vard--Bardwell the Boss's Boomerang"--you know the kind of thing.
When I had read the papers I threw them down and went out. As it happened,
Vard was to have given me a sitting that morning; but there would have
been a certain irony in waiting for him. I wished I had finished the
picture--I wished I'd never thought of painting it. I wanted to shake off
the whole business, to put it out of my mind, if I could: I had the
feeling--I don't know if I can describe it--that there was a kind of
disloyalty to the poor girl in my even acknowledging to myself that I knew
what all the papers were howling from the housetops....
I had walked for an hour when it suddenly occurred to me that Miss Vard
might, after all, come to the studio at the appointed hour. Why should
she? I could conceive of no reason; but the mere thought of what, if she
_did_ come, my absence would imply to her, sent me bolting back to Twelfth
Street. It was a presentiment, if you like, for she was there.
As she rose to meet me a newspaper slipped from her hand: I'd been fool
enough, when I went out, to leave the damned things lying all over the
place.
I muttered some apology for being late, and she said reassuringly:
"But my father's not here yet."
"Your father--?" I could have kicked myself for the way I bungled it!
"He went out very early this morning, and left word that he would meet me
here at the usual hour.
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