He lit another match.

Hollanden had watched the fingers of his friend as the match was scratched.

"You're nervous, Billie," he said.
Hawker straightened in his chair.

"No, I'm not." "I saw your fingers tremble when you lit that match." "Oh, you lie!" Hollanden mused again.

"He's popular with women, too," he said ultimately; "and often a woman will like a man and hunt his scalp just because she knows other women like him and want his scalp." "Yes, but not----" "Hold on! You were going to say that she was not like other women, weren't you ?" "Not exactly that, but----" "Well, we will have all that understood." After a period of silence Hawker said, "I must be going." As the painter walked toward the door Hollanden cried to him: "Heavens! Of all pictures of a weary pilgrim!" His voice was very compassionate.
Hawker wheeled, and an oath spun through the smoke clouds..