"He's catching a bit of the city from the
hill just beyond the pear-tree."
"Painting, eh? I heard he was here. I want to talk to him."
"I don't think it will do any good," was the sad reply. "He doesn't think
as you do."
"You believe he's a genius," snarled the other.
"You know he is."
"I'll go and find him."
She nodded. "I wish you luck," she said, but there was no conviction in
her tone. Truth was, she did not wish him luck in this. She watched him
leave by the French window and stride across the lawn. A strange,
troubled expression was in her face.
"They can't pull it off together," she said to herself, and Carnac is too
full of independence. He wants nothing from anybody. He needs no one; he
follows no one--except me. Yes, he follows--he loves me.
She watched her husband till he almost viciously thrust aside the bushes
staying his progress, and broke into the space by the pear-tree where
Carnac sat with palette and brush, gazing at the distant roofs on which
the sun was leaving its last kiss.
Carnac got to his feet with a smile, and with a courage in his eye equal
to that which had ever been in his father's face--in the face of John
Grier. It was strange that the other's presence troubled him, that even
as a small child, to be in the same room for any length of time vexed
him.
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