question...

And down here it was, in this unlovely street, in the Duchess's unlovely
house, that the drama of Maggie Carlisle and Larry Brainard began
its unpromising and stormy career: for, though they had thought of it
little, their forebears had been sowers of the wind, they themselves had
sown some of that careless seed and were to sow yet more--and there was
to be the reaping of that seed's wild crop.

CHAPTER II

When Maggie entered the studio on the Duchess's third floor, the big,
red-haired, unkempt painter roared his rebukes at her. She stiffened,
and in the resentment of her proud youth did not even offer an
explanation. Nodding to her father and Barney Palmer, she silently
crossed to the window and stood sullenly gazing over the single mongrel
tree before the house and down the narrow street and across the little
Square, at the swirling black tide which raced through East River. That
painter was a beast! Yes, and a fool!

But quickly the painter was forgotten, and once more her mind reverted
to Larry--at last Larry was coming back!--only to have the painter,
after a minute, interrupt her excited imagination with:

"What's the matter with your tongue, Maggie? Generally you stab back
with it quick enough."

She turned, still sulky and silent, and gazed with cynical superiority
at the easel. "Nuts"--it was Barney Palmer who had thus lightly
rechristened the painter when he had set up his studio in the attic
above the pawnshop six months before--Nuts was transferring the seamy,
cunning face of her father, "Old Jimmie" Carlisle, to the canvas with
swift, unhesitating strokes.

"For the lova Christ and the twelve apostles, including that piker
Judas," woefully intoned Old Jimmie from the model's chair, "lemme get
down off this platform!"

"Move and I'll wipe my palette off on that Mardi Gras vest of yours!"
grunted the big painter autocratically through his mouthful of brushes.

"O God--and I got a cramp in my back, and my neck's gone to
sleep!" groaned Old Jimmie, leaning forward on his cane. "Daughter,
dear"--plaintively to Maggie--"what is the crazy gentleman doing to me?"

"It's an awful smear, father." Maggie spoke slightingly, but with a tone
of doubt. It was not the sort of picture that eighteen has been taught
to like--yet the picture did possess an intangible something that
provoked doubt as to its quality. "You sure do look one old burglar!"

"Not a cheap burglar?"--hopefully.

"Na