“I suppose that is the way with most artists. They like interesting things whether they use them or not.”
“Yes, it is, I believe. They are a queer lot. There was Marc’s friend over in Europe starving himself for the sake of an idea. He was a queer study, that fellow, yet one couldn’t help respecting him for his absolute heroism in devoting himself to the thing he most cared for.”
“That is the one they call Crackers, on whose account the angels will lay aside another trailing feather for your wings.”
“Oh, nonsense. I didn’t do anything of any account. Any decent doctor would have done the same for one of his countrymen. We won’t dilate upon that subject, Nan.” The doctor was really confused.
“Such funny names, Crackers and Pinch!” continued Nan, her thoughts still on the subject of Mr. Wells and his friends. “What sort of man is this Mr. Romaine?”
“Oh, not altogether a bad sort. Does a little illustrating in a dilettante way, has a wealthy dad, you know, and has a studio in New York all gorgeous with Eastern things and armor and so on. Marc and he have it together.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“By the way, Pinch is coming back next week, and I believe his sister and Miss Kitty Vanderver are coming, too. The ladies are going to stay at the White farm, and then they will all go home together when Place o’ Pines is closed.”
Nan felt as if a cold hand had suddenly clutched her. With these would come farewell to the happy little reunions, to the walks and talks, to the moments when she found herself by the side of her artist friend. “And you will be going, too,” she said ruefully.
“Yes, my holiday is nearly over and it has been a royal one, though I must say, Nan, I haven’t seen as much of you as I expected.”