To her mind, however, in
the big things, his actions always had reasonableness. She had never felt
his artist-life was to be the only note of his career. When, therefore,
in the West she read a telegram in a newspaper announcing his
candidature, she guessed the suddenness of his decision. When she read
it, she spread the paper on the table, smoothed it as though it were a
beautiful piece of linen, then she stretched out her hands in happy
benediction. Like most of her sex, she loved the thrill of warfare. There
flashed the feeling, however, that it would be finer sport if Carnac and
Tarboe were to be at war, instead of Carnac and Barouche. It was curious
she never thought of Carnac but the other man came throbbing into
sight--the millionaire, for he was that now.
In one way, this last move of Carnac's had the elements of a
master-stroke. She knew how strange it would seem to the rest of the
world, yet it did not seem strange to her. No man she had ever seen had
been so at home in the world of men, and also at home in the secluded
field of the chisel and the brush as Carnac.
She took the newspaper over to her aunt, holding it up. The big headlines
showed like semaphores on the page. As the graceful figure of Junia drew
to her aunt--her slim feet, in the brown, well-polished boots, the long,
full neck, and then the chin, Grecian, shapely and firm, the straight,
sensitive nose, the wonderful eyes under the well-cut, broad forehead,
with the brown hair, covering it like a canopy--the old lady reached out
and wound her arms round the lissome figure.
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