"Poor soul," I said. "How his fingers must ache to choke the life from the Boche responsible for that."
Lawrence made no reply. He was drained of blood. He sat rigid, petrified.
"In Paris and London," I continued, "one sees hundreds of mutilés—the war's driftwood—and I have trained myself to look unflinchingly into their eyes. But"—I glanced in the direction the sailor had disappeared—"my histronic ability would fail me there."
Still Lawrence made no move or sound. That he was profoundly touched I knew, for a sensitiveness, abnormal in its refinement, had been his lifelong curse. It had prevented his marriage to a young woman in whom were combined, he thought at one time, all the qualities that appeal to a man of esthetic temperament.
In his studio, one afternoon, they were planning for the wedding. Lawrence recalled a newly-acquired object d'art and took it from a cabinet. The treasure was an exquisite bit of ancient Egyptian glass, a spherulate bowl, so delicate of line and so ethereally opalescent of color that it always made me think of a bubble poised to float away.
I can imagine how he carried it across the room—with that caressing touch of velvet-tipped fingers peculiar to artists. The young woman, in order to examine it closely, grabbed the bowl and proceeded to paw it as & prospector might a bit of rock. Lawrence said afterward that had she struck him he could not have been more shocked. He broke the engagement that afternoon.
"Come, drink up, man!" I urged. "Stop looking as though you'd seen a ghost."
"Things other than ghosts can haunt one," he answered in a pinched tone.
We ordered drinks again, with misgivings on my part, for I felt the trembling man opposite me already had had too much. He sat slumped in his chair, shoulders hunched forward, and stared straight before him. Reminiscent or speculative, I could not tell.
Then he began to tell me a story that explained many things. His words were no longer crisp; he now spoke in a heavy, monotonous way, with many pauses, pressing his hands together in a gesture of anguish.
"The odor of that rose," he said, "and the sight—I can't stand the smell of roses! Not since two summers ago. I met a Portuguese sailor on the Wharf one day—you know—in that damn place—Land's End. Had planned a canvas, and all summer had been looking for a model—a type.
"A Portuguese Apollo he was—but a Portuguese devil, too. Didn't find that out till later. I stopped him and asked would he pose. Conceited swine! From his smile I knew it was vanity, not industry, that made him accept."
A venomous hate wove its way through Lawrence’s phrases, He continued:
"Well—he called at my studio—the next afternoon—and I started the picture. He was a find. Dramatic. An inspiration.
"During the rest periods Pedro—that was his name— would lie on the floor and talk about himself while I made tea. God! How vain he was! Boasted of his success with women—his affairs. They were many. Quite plausible. He spurned the Bay and its fishing, and shipped on merchantmen. The ports of the world were his hunting ground, he said. Swashbuckling bully!"
To hear Lawrence speak so bitterly of Land's End and one of its people was puzzling, for the extraordinary note sounded in that small New England town by its so-called foreign settlement, descendants of Portuguese fishermen who came over some seventy years ago and settled along the New England coast, had appealed strongly
