Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1916)

CLASSIC held his breath, gazing. In the blackand-white witchery of her strange gown, with the heavy, gold wristlets linking her slender arms together by a long, golden chain, this woman caught the imagination irresistibly. Once, in an East African forest, Harcourt had met a little, striped feline-creature of the leopard breed and dared to contest the right of way with her. He bore the savage marks of the encounter on his body now, but it had been he who had conquered and watched, thru the raining blood, the humbled cat-creature crawl to lick his feet and die. As he stood in this luxurious house, behind The Huntress’ velvet, rose curtains, a sudden memory of the scene flashed across his brain, and he felt his muscles tauten and his blood thicken. “I could tame her,” he thought, breathlessly ; “I will tame her !” B e y o n d the Harcourt’s feet. He almost stooped to snatch it up, then, despite the thick beating of his veins, managed a cool, aloof' smile. ‘“I am in New York for only a week longer,” he said. “I fear that is too short a time for exploration. But no doubt you will find it a simple matter to get a substitute. And now good-evening, Miss Girard.” He bowed, with ironic politeness, met her glance fully, and went out of the room, every nerve in his body quivering. “Lord!” he muttered, as he went down the steps and paused to light a cigar for half of a sleepless night she tossed among her embroideries and laces, recalling every note of a slow, sarcastic voice, every contemptuous expression of a strong, handsome face. “I hate him — I hate him!” she cried. It was her boast that no man had ever made her love him, but she did not realize that this same hatred was bringing her perilously near her Waterloo. To Fleming Harcourt the days of the succeeding week crawled by on stumbling feet. With every knock on his door, his heart leaped up suffocatingly, only to sink again at the sight of the yellow telegrams that reminded him of his neglected duties in the West. And then, when he had almost ceased to expect it, her letter came. It was very brief, almost form a 1 — as tho each word in it had been “i HAVE BEEN FAVORED OF MEN ABOVE ALL OTHERS — EVEN TONIGHT YOU COULD NOT HELP BUT HEAR THEIR ADORATION” curtains Ned Ashley was sobbing over The Huntress’ white hands. “I might have known I was a fool to dream ; but you make us all fools, Nadine,” he said ; then, with a touch of dignity, “but I'm not fool enough to stay here for you to make fun of, nor to come again. Add me to your list if you want to, but dont expect to get any more fun out of me. I’m done, dear — done!” To The Huntress, smiling secretly over her own thoughts, came a big, quiet figure from the curtained window and faced her, drawing her gaze. “I owe you an apology,” said Fleming Harcourt, slowly. “I played eavesdropper just now. I was interested in seeing what sort of a woman you were.” “And' did you discover?” The Huntress shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “I give you full leave to find out — for yourself.” The glove of her challenge fell at (Fifteen) with shaking fingers, “I’m going to see this thru. A week, did I say? It cant be a day longer, or those strikers out at the mine will get the upper hand. It's up to her now, and, of course, I may never hear from her again. But I dont imagine she ever had a man show indifference before. I’d bet my bottom dollar she writes ” Here his third match burned his fingers without meeting the cigar-tip, and he flung both away and plunged into the surge of traffic, toward the nearest taxi-stand, hands deep in his coatpockets. If the woman left alone in her beautiful drawing-room — curling, crim" son lip caught savagely between white teeth — could have seen the little matter of the discarded cigar, perhaps it would have eased the intolerable smart of her pride ; but, as it was, she sent her visitors home summarily and went up to Felice’s ministrations with flashing eyes. And written grudgingly ; but it asked him to call on her, and Harcourt knew, when be read it, that triumph was not so much his sensation as a profound, sickening relief. “I love her,” he said aloud, slowly, over the scented sheets of paper. “I did not mean to, but it is stronger than I. But I am not one of her fools to play to her vanity and weakly take dismissal. She shall never know I love her, until she has confessed first that she loves me.” It was the last possible night of his stay in the city. Tomorrow, whether or no, he must be speeding across the continent to his mines. But he would spend this last evening royally — he would be spendthrift of its few, golden moments, for the stakes for which he was gambling were very high. The Huntress received him alone, a concession that was almost a confession, if he could have guessed it, and for an