Between Friends

"Anyway," insisted Quair, "here's what I think of 'em--"

"My model, yonder," said Drene, a slight shrug of contempt, "happens

to be feminine, and may also be human. Be decent enough to defer the

development of your rather tiresome theory."

The girl on the model-stand laughed outright at the rebuke,

stretched her limbs and body, and relaxed, launching a questioning

glance at Drene.

"All right; rest a bit," said the sculptor, smearing the bit of wax

he was pinching over the sketch before him.

He gave another twirl or two to the table, wiped his bony fingers on

a handful of cotton waste, picked up his empty pipe, and blew into

the stem, reflectively.

Quair, one of the associated architects of the new opera, who had

been born a gentleman and looked the perfect bounder, sauntered over

to examine the sketch. He was still red from the rebuke he had

invited.

Guilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked

over also. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group,

where it belonged, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his

empty pipe.

After a silence: "It's all right," said Guilder.

Quair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy. It is

true, however, that, except for Guilder's habitual restraint, the

celebrated firm of architects was inclined to express themselves

flamboyantly, and to interpret Renaissance in terms of Baroque.

"She's some girl," added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled

figure, and then half turning to include the model, who had seated

herself on the lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the

composition sketched in by Drene for the facade of the new opera.

"Carpeaux and his eternal group--it's the murderous but inevitable

standard of comparison," mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the

photograph on the wall.

"Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady," insisted Quair

flippantly; and he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the

model. Once or twice the two others, consulting before the wax

group, heard the girl's light, untroubled laughter behind their

backs gaily responsive to Quair's wit. Perhaps Quair's inheritance

had been humor, but to some it seemed perilously akin to mother-wit.

The pockets of Guilder's loose, ill-fitting clothes bulged with

linen tracings and rolls of blue-prints. He and Drene consulted over

these for a while, semi-conscious of Quair's bantering voice and the

girl's easily provoked laughter behind them. And, finally: "All right, Guilder," said Drene briefly. And the firm of

celebrated architects prepared to evacuate the studio--Quair

exhibiting symptoms of incipient skylarking, in which he was said to

be at his best.