Morris had lent an ear to the discussion and again took up the
cudgels.
"You young fellows are right," he cried, twisting his body toward
their table. The realists have had their day; they work a picture
to death; all of them. If you did but know it, it really takes two
men to paint a great picture--one to do the work and the other to
kill him when he has done enough."
"Pity some of your murderers, Holker, didn't start before they
stretched their canvases," laughed Harrington.
And so the hours sped on.
All this time Peter had been listening with one ear wide open--the
one nearest the door--for any sound in that direction. French
masterpieces Impressionism and the rest of it did not interest him
to-night. Something else was stirring him--something he had been
hugging to his heart all day.
Only the big and little coals in his own fireplace in Fifteenth
Street, and perhaps the great back-log, beside himself, knew the
cause. He had not taken Miss Felicia into his confidence--that
would never have done--might, indeed, have spoilt everything.
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