Holbrook argus., 1912-10-08
Love and Art

borhood of orange groves and mag nolia trees. His studio was place for sight-seers, as well as a pleasant re- sort for friends and neighbors. Others succumbed to Lorimer's in Huence because they found him re- sponsive and congenial, but I imagined that he attracted me because he was my contrast. It was he, himself, who discovered that our natures, beneath the surface, were positive and not neg ative, and with that discovery he swept away all imagined barriers between us, placing me at once in the heart of the company that haunted his bungalow.
 He said to me one day as he looped a Persian drapery behind his models chair: "Tisdale, you have the depth of artist-instinct, but you haven't the gift of expression. You don't even talk. These others, for instance,"- waving hls hand in the direction of he chatterers just gone-"these others talk about everything they feel, and, dear boy, they have so little to tell"
 His tone to me was like velvet touch, and his eyes held steel-blue gleam that made me love to look at him. I knew that he knew my inner self, asd that whatever that self might be, it as valued by him.
 I shall never forget the kindly sym pathy that shone from his eyes when he realized one special day that l needed him to understand me. I had gone to him, troubled about my moth CTS orphaned cousin Lucy, who had come to us to live, having no other place to go. I wanted to befriend her, to make her happy, and I could not even tell her that she was welcome.
 She was little daisy maid, blossom ing into womanhood almost in day, under our soft skies and in our south ern California breezes.
 As I entered the studio, Lorimer's clean-shaven cheeks, his locks of dark hair thrown off his forehead, the friendly eyes under his heavy brows, made a fit crown to his tall form standing before the easel. I can see the very dab of ochre on his thumb. He was busy at one of his wonderful wood interiors, touching in the sum light by hints of yellow on the lichen- covered trunks.
 "Yes, Tisdale;' Lorimer said, after had looked for long time over his shoulder without speaking, q feel the joy of utterance. Why, man, think what relief to weep in grief! That Is what it is to paint, to sing, to be a poet" --~
 T can do none of these things" I answered slowly.
 No, but after all, perhaps within you may be artist or poet. Life has an intensity, a value, that this hasn't" " and Lorimer lightly struck his can- vas.
 A woman-it is always a woman that intrudes upon mems friendships. She is sort of earth, trespassing upon a kind of heaven. This time, 1t was, of course, the daisy maid, and 1t is difficult to know whether she made earth heaven, or brought heaven to earth.
 Lorimer and I suddenly awoke to the knowledge of mutual love for my modest cousin. Why could not he have. chosen one of the beautiful wom- en that haunted his studio? From the crowds I met in cars and shops, why could not have taken another woman and been satisfied?
 My very silence was confession after his avowal of love for Lucy, and then he admonished gravely, "Tisdale re member we are her courtiers, and th6 courtiers stand aside when the queeS passes, choosing whom she will' Oh! but it was hard to give another man fair play; hard for us both. Lori mer's face grew thin under the strain and a river of fire seemed to flow iu and out of my heart.
 At last, Lucy consented to sit foE her portrait. One day, hidden in spori behind some studio trumIpery, we watched her enter. LorinIer's hand was on my shoulder. As fortune had decreed, my handkerchief lay on the floor. Her own hand had, so em broidered the square of linen that ii seemed too dainty for the pocket oi my shaggy coat; but when I carried the sheer and pretty thing, she seemed close. Now, Lucy looked hastily tc right and left, then, believing herself alone, she caught up the handkerchiei and pressed it to her lips; then she thrust it into her. gown, and as she went away. she covered the place with her hand, as though bird had flown into her bosom z
 Lorimer gripped' my shoulder, but the blood leaped to my face for joy and then ran back in tide of shame because was so poor a creature felt my short and sturdy figure grow more plebean in-eontrast to my friend I saw my unruly shock of sandy hair; my features-my limbs; my hands and feet; all that the world calls man.
 We were silent, for I know not how long, listening to the clock that Lori mer timed his hours by. Finally, il was he that smoke.