Motionless, Larry stood gazing at where Maggie had been.  Within him was tumult; he did not yet understand the significance of that impulsive kiss . . .  He began to walk the floor, his mind and will now more in control.  Yes, he was going to go straight; he was going to make good, and make good in a big way!  And he was going to make Maggie go straight, too.  He’d show her!  It wasn’t going to be easy, but he had his big plan made, and he had determination, and he knew he’d win in the end.  Yes, he’d show her! . . .

Up before the mirror Maggie sat looking intently at herself.  Part of her consciousness was wondering about that kiss, and part kept fiercely repeating that she’d show him—­she’d show him—­she’d show him! . . .

Looking thus into their futures they were both very certain of themselves and of the roads which they were to travel.

CHAPTER VII

Larry was still gazing at where Maggie had stood, flashing her defiance at him, when Hunt came thumping down the stairway.

“Hello, young fellow; what you been doing to Maggie?” demanded the painter.

“Why?”

“Her door was open when I came by and I called to her.  She didn’t answer, but, oh, what a look!  What’s in the air?”

And then Hunt noted the Duchess apart in her corner.  “I say, Duchess—­ what were Larry and Maggie rowing about?”

“Grandmother!” Larry exclaimed with a start.  “I’d forgotten you were here!  You must have heard it all—­go ahead and tell him.”

“Tell him yourself,” returned the Duchess.

Larry and Hunt took chairs, and Larry gave the gist of what he had said about his decision to Barney and Old Jimmie and Maggie.  The Duchess, still motionless at her desk as she had been all during Larry’s scene with Old Jimmie and Barney, and then his scene with Maggie, regarded her grandson with that emotionless, mummified face in which only the red-margined eyes showed life or interest.

“So you’re going to go straight, eh?” queried Hunt.  The big painter sat with his long legs sprawling in front of him, a black pipe in his mouth, and looked at Larry skeptically.  “You certainly did hand a jolt to your friends who’d been counting on you.  And yet you’re sore because they were sore at you and didn’t believe in you.”

“Did I say that I was sore?” queried Larry.

“No, but you’re acting it.  And you’re sore at Maggie because she didn’t believe that you could make good or that you’d stick it out.  Well, I don’t believe you will either.”

“You’re a great painter, Hunt, and a great cook—­but I don’t give a damn what you believe.”