"Maggie, I'll get my real clothes late this afternoon; how about my
dropping in at the Ritzmore for a cup of tea, and letting me buy some
cigarettes and talk to you when you're not busy?" he inquired when
Hunt had finished with her.
"You may buy cigarettes, but you'll get no talk!" she snapped, and
head high and dark eyes flashing contempt, she swept past him.
Hunt watched her out. As the door slammed behind her, he remarked
dryly, his eyes searching Larry keenly:
"Our young queen doesn't seem wildly enthusiastic about you or your
programme."
"She certainly is not."
"Don't let that worry you, young fellow. That's a common trait of her
whole tribe; women simply cannot believe in a man!"
There was an emphasis and a cynicism in this last remark which caused
Larry to regard the painter searchingly. "You seem to know what it is.
Don't mean to butt in, Hunt, if there are any trespassing signs up--
but there's a woman in your case?"
"Of course there is--there's always a woman; that's another reason I'm
here," Hunt answered. "She didn't believe in me--didn't believe I
could paint--didn't believe in the things I wanted to do--so I just
picked up my playthings and walked out of her existence."
"Wife?" queried Larry.
"Thank God, no!" exclaimed Hunt emphatically.
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