style="font-size:15px;"> "To speak of studio lighting as artificial and unworthy is silly. It is pretty hard to find anything really artificial in the world, indoors, or out, or even in the glare of the footlights. I think the main idea is that a man should prefer doing what the public calls his work, to any other form of recreation—should use enough reason—not too much—enough inspiration—but watching himself at every brush stroke; and finally should feel physically unfettered—that is, have the a b c, the drudgery, the artisan's part of the work at his finger tips. Then, if he does what makes him happy, whether in a spirit of realism or romanticism, he can safely leave the rest to Fate."
He looked at her, curiously for a moment, then a smile wholly involuntary broke over his face:
"Lord! What a lecture! And you listened to all that nonsense like an angel!"
The dreamy absorption died out in her eyes; she clasped her hands on her knee, looked down, then up at him almost irritably:
"Please go on, Mr. Neville."
"Not much. I've a few stunts to execute aloft there—"
He contemplated her in amused silence, which became more serious:
"You have talent, Miss West. Artistic talent is not unusual among Americans, but patience is. That is one reason why talent accomplishes so little in this country."
"Isn't another reason that patience is too expensive to be indulged in by talent?"
He laughed: "That is perfectly true. The majority of us have to make a living before we know how."
"Did you have to do that?"
"No, I didn't."
"You were fortunate?"
"Yes. I was—perhaps…. I'm not sure."
She touched the lump of green wax gravely, absently. He remained looking at her, busy with his own reflections.
"Would you like to have a chance to study?" he asked.
"Study? What?"
"Sculpture—any old thing! Would you like to try?
"What chance have I for such expensive amusements as study?" she laughed.
"I'll be responsible for you."
"You?"—in blank surprise.
"I'll attend to the material part of it, if you like. I'll see that you can afford the—patience."
"Mr. Neville, I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?" he asked, lazily humorous.
"Do you mean—that you offer me—an opportunity—"
"Yes; an opportunity to exercise patience. It's an offer, Miss West. But I'm perfectly certain you won't take it."
For a long while she sat, her cheek resting on one palm, looking fixedly into space. Then she stirred, glanced up, blushed vividly, sprang to her feet and crossed to where he sat.
"I've been considering your offer," she said, striving to speak without effort.
"I'll bet you won't accept it!"
"You win your wager, Mr. Neville."
"I wonder why?" he said with his bantering smile: "but I think I know. Talent in America is seldom intellectually ambitious."
To his amazement and vexation tears sprang to her eyes; she said, biting her lower lip: "My ambition is humble. I care—more than anything in the world—to be of use to—to your career."
Taken completely by surprise he said, "Nonsense," and rose to confront her where she stood wholly charming in her nervous, flushed emotion:
"It isn't nonsense, Mr. Neville; it is my happiness.
"I don't believe you realise what your career means to me. I would not willingly consider anything that might interrupt my humble part in it—in this happy companionship…. After all, happiness is the essential. You said so once. I am happier here than I possibly could be in an isolation where I might perhaps study—learn—" Her voice broke deliciously as he met her gaze in cool, curious disapproval.
"You can't understand it!" she said, flushing almost fiercely. "You can't comprehend what the daily intimacy with a man of your sort has done—is doing for me every moment of my life. How can you understand? You, who have your own place in the world—in life—in this country—in this city! You, who have family, friends, clubs, your social life in city and country, and abroad. Life is very full for you—has always been. But—what I am now learning in contact with you and with the people to whom you have introduced me—is utterly new to me—and—very—pleasant…. I have tasted it; I cannot live without it now."
She drew a deep quick breath, then, looking up at him with a tremulous smile:
"What would you think if I told you that, until Sam took me, I had never even been inside a theatre except when I was engaged by Schindler? It is perfectly true. Mother did not approve. Until I went with John Burleson I had never ever been in a restaurant; until I was engaged by Schindler I had never seen the city lighted at night—I mean where the theatres and cafés and hotels are…. And, Mr. Neville, until I came here to you, I had never had an opportunity to talk to a cultivated man of my own age—I mean the kind of man you are."
She dropped her eyes, considering, while the smile still played faintly with the edges of her lips; then:
"Is it very hard for you to realise that what is an ordinary matter of course to the young of my age is, to me, all a delightful novelty?—that I am enjoying to a perfectly heavenly degree what to you and others may be commonplace and uninteresting? All I ask is to be permitted to enjoy it while I am still young enough. I—I must! I really need it, Mr. Neville. It seems, at moments, as if I could never have enough—after the years—where I had—nothing."
Neville had begun walking to and fro in front of her with the quick, decisive step that characterised his movements; but his restlessness seemed only to emphasise the attention he concentrated on every word she spoke; and, though he merely glanced at her from moment to moment, she was conscious that the man now understood, and was responding more directly to her than ever before in their brief and superficial acquaintance.
"I don't want to go away and study," she said. "It is perfectly dear of you to offer it—I—there is no use in trying to thank you—"
"Valerie!"
"What!" she said, startled by his use of her given name for the first time in their acquaintance.
He said, smilingly grave: "You didn't think there was a string attached to anything I offered?"
"A—a string?"
"Did you?"
She blushed hotly: "No, of course not."
"It's all right then," he nodded; but she began to think of that new idea in a confused, startled, helpless sort of way.
"How could you think that of me?" she faltered.
"I didn't—"
"You—it
