The Detroit times. [volume] (Detroit, Mich.) 1903-1920, 1913-10-20
BY HAROLD MacCRATH,

iVOltu I'll the kIdSs. w ltli u
ries he doesn't want Wife half sc
much as good. comrade: somebody
So slap him on the back in the morn
ing to hearten him up for the day
work; and 10 cuddle him up when he
comes home tired or disappointed. oil
unsuccessful. No matter what mood
he's in. IL my English getting away
from you?" -,'r .~.,
.-e No; i understand all you say" Hei
hand rested trifle heavier upon his
shoulder, that was all.
Nora would be that kind OF a wife
Honor. anger. valor. fire. as Steven
son says. Hang the picture; what an
! going TO do with it,"
Honor, anger, valor, fire, Gel
este repeated slowly. Yes. that Is
Nora" A bitter little smile moved
her lips as she recalled the happen
ings of the last two days. But no;
he must find ont for himself he must
meet the hurt from Nora. not from
her. How long, Abbott have you
known your friend Mr. CourtlandtF
Boys together" playing light tat
too with his mahlstick.
How old is he?"
About thirty-two or three.
He u very rich?'
Oceans of money: throws II away
but not fast enough 10 get rid OF II,
He Is what you say In English
Wild"
well. with mock gravity. I
shouldn't like to be the tiger that
crossed his path. Wild; that's the
word for It."
"You are laughing. All. know!
l, should say dissipatedi'
"Courtlandt? Come, now. Celeste:
does he look dissipated?'
Moo"
''He drinks when he chooses, he
fiirts with pretty woman when hes
chooses, he smokes the finest tobacco
there ID when he chooses He Is like
the seasons; he comes and goes, and
nobody can change his habits"
He has had NO AFFAIR.""
why, Courtlandt hasn't any heart.
It's a mechanical device to keep his
blood In circulation; that's all. l
am the most intimate friend he has,
and yet I know no more than you
how he lives and where he goes.
She let her hand fall from his
shoulder. She was glad that he did
not know.
But look" she cried in warning.
Abbott looked.
A woman was coming serenely
down the path from the wooded pro
montDry. a woman undeniably hand.
some In a cedar-tinted linen dress.
exquisitely fashioned, with a touch
of vivid scarlet on her hat and . most
tantaiizing fash of scarlet ankle. Il
was Flora Desfmofie, fresh from her
morning bath - and substantial
breakfast. The errand that had
brought irsr from Afx.ies-Bains was
cot1fegsedly q mercifur one. But she
-pussessed tire dramtist's instinct to
prolong situation. Thus, to make
her act of mercy seem infinitely
larger than 1t was, she was deter
mined -fsst TO east the Apple of Dis.
cord into this charming corner OF
Eden. The Apple Of Discord. as
every man knows, is the only thing
a woman can throw with any accur.
acy.
The artist snatched up his brushes
and ruined the painting forthwith, fol-
all time. The foreground was, In his
opinion, beyond redemption: 50, with
a savage humor. he rapidly limned in
a score of impossible trees. turned
midday into sunset, with riot Of
colors which would have made the
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
to Nora's moods.
You have spoiled it," cried Ce-
leste. She had watched the picture
grow. and to see 1t ruthlesly destroyed
this way hurt her. How could you!"
Worst | ever did" He began to
change the whole effect, chuckling
audibly as he worked. Sunset divid-
ed honors with moonlight. 1t was no
longer incongruous; 1t was ridicu-
lous. He leaned back and laughed.
I'm going 10 send 1t to L'Asino, and
call II an afterthought."
Give 1t to me-"
What"
Yes"
Nonsense. I'm going to touch q
match to 1t. I'll give you that pic
ture with the lavender In bloom"
Il want this
But you can not hang it."
Il want IT,"
Well" The more he learned about
women the farther out OF mental
reach they seemed to 60. 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. II Is the Signorina Fournier."
In preparing studiously to ignore
Flora Desimone's presence they had
forgotten all about her. st
Good morning. Signora.'' said Ce-
leste in italian.
And the Signore Abbott, the paint.
er. also!" The Calabrian raised what
she considered her most deadly weap.
on. her lorgnette.
Celeste had her fancy-work instant.
ly In her two hands: Abbott's were
occupied: Flora's hands we're likewise
engaged; thus. the insipid mockery
OF hand-shaking was nicely and en-
cusably avoided.
what Is IT." asked Flora. squint-
ing.
III Is new. style OF the impres.
sionist which ! began this morning"
soberly
III looks very natural" observed
Flora.
Natural Abbott dropped his
rnahlstick.
II Is Vesuv. is II not. on cloudy
day."