The Argosy — page 154: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

142 Playing with Fire. “You are right to be grateful,” she said, smiling up at him. “ But . I never show my pictures unless I am sure of a proper amount of gratitude.” And she went out. ‘* How charming she is,” thought Scott, as he paced up and down, waiting for her return. ‘“ And how utterly different from everyone else in this dull monotonous world.” And he went on to wonder whether she cared anything for him. Although he had not known her long, he knew that she was exceedingly proud, and very sparing in her favours. A thousand little nuances of difference between her manner to him and her manner to other men came one after the other to his recollection, and he could not help fancying that she must care for him a little. How was he to know that she was only acting a part—playing out a preconceived réle? How was he to know that she did not truly approve him ? And he was a man on whom any woman might have looked with approval. Tall, strong and muscular, with brown curly hair, and a soft moustache some shades lighter—a pair of laughing, handsome, don’t-care, Irish grey eyes, and a firm, well-shaped mouth. Altogether “horribly handsome,” as Laura confessed to herself when she re-entered the room with her portfolios of sketches. He hastened to take them from her, and place them on a table. ‘“‘ Now,” she said, ‘you are to have your curiosity gratified.” With that, they began to turn over the sketches. They were won- derful, lifelike, though not unfrequently faultful technically—and had a verve and go about them which surprised Scott, who had expected from Laura’s paintings at most mediocrity. They were mostly faces and figures, and among them he recognised several mutual friends. “What a splendid talent you have for catching likenesses?” he said, in conclusion. They had gone through most of the drawings, and he had expressed his admiration of each as it was inspected. “‘ They are more interesting than fancy sketches.” “Did you ever paint your own portrait ?” (ty Yes.” “Won't you show it to me?” “Yes—if you wish it.” She turned to leave the room. As she passed him their eyes met, and she read in his that what she had so wished for would not now long be delayed. When she had looked out her own portrait and some other sketches, she paused a moment before returning to the boudoir, and held her hand against her heart, which was beating violently. She felt a mad desire to hide herself away. She thought for a moment of not seeing him again. She felt a sudden new dread of him, and of what he might say or do, and an equally new distrust of herself in the character of avenger. Yet, was all her scheme of retribution to end in—flight? Vo. For Constance Harewood’s sake she would go comicbooks.com