Pistols for Two

Courtlandt knocked on the studio door.

"Come in."

He discovered Abbott, stretched out upon the lounge, idly picking at the
loose plaster in the wall.

"Hello!" said Abbott carelessly. "Help yourself to a chair."

Instead, Courtlandt walked about the room, aimlessly. He paused at the
window; he picked up a sketch and studied it at various angles; he kicked
the footstool across the floor, not with any sign of anger but with a
seriousness that would have caused Abbott to laugh, had he been looking at
his friend. He continued, however, to pluck at the plaster. He had always
hated and loved Courtlandt, alternately. He never sought to analyze this
peculiar cardiac condition. He only knew that at one time he hated the
man, and that at another he would have laid down his life for him. Perhaps
it was rather a passive jealousy which he mistook for hatred. Abbott had
never envied Courtlandt his riches; but often the sight of Courtlandt's
physical superiority, his adaptability, his knowledge of men and affairs,
the way he had of anticipating the unspoken wishes of women, his
unembarrassed gallantry, these attributes stirred the envy of which he was
always manly enough to be ashamed. Courtlandt's unexpected appearance in
Bellaggio had also created a suspicion which he could not minutely define.
The truth was, when a man loved, every other man became his enemy, not
excepting her father: the primordial instinct has survived all the
applications of veneer. So, Abbott was not at all pleased to see his
friend that morning.