Often Larry wished she would speak of Hunt. He was curious about Hunt,
of whom he thought daily; and such talk might yield him information
about the blustering, big-hearted painter who was gypsying it down at
the Duchess's. But as the days passed she never mentioned Hunt again;
not even to ask where he was or what he was doing. She was adhering
very strictly to the remark she had made the night Larry came here: "I
don't want to know until he wants me to know." And so Hunt remained
the same incomplete picture to Larry; the painter was indubitably at
home in such surroundings as these, and he was at home as a
roistering, hard-working vagabond at the Duchess's--but all the vast
spaces between were utterly blank, except for the sketchy remarks Hunt
had made concerning himself.
Larry had guessed that hurt pride was the reason for Hunt's vanishment
from the world which had known him. But he knew hurt pride was not
Miss Sherwood's motive for making no inquiries. Anger? No. Jealousy?
No. Some insult offered her? No. Larry went through the category of
ordinary motives, of possible happenings; but he could find none which
would reconcile her very keen and kindly feeling for Hunt with her
abstinence from all inquiries.
From his first day in his sanctuary Larry spent long hours every day
over the accounts and documents Miss Sherwood had put in his hands.
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