That is how it came about that Georgina found Richard’s father waiting for her at the foot of the Green Stairs when she came running back from the grocery. When she went home a few minutes later, she carried with her something more than the cake of sweet chocolate that Tippy had sent her for in such a hurry. It was the flattering knowledge that a famous illustrator had asked to make a sketch of her which would be published in a book if it turned out to be a good one.
With a sailing party and a studio reception and several other engagements to fill up his one day in Provincetown, Mr. Locke could give only a part of the morning to the sketches, and wanted to begin as soon as possible. So a few minutes after Georgina went dancing in with the news, he followed in Mr. Milford’s machine. He arrived so soon after, in fact, that Tippy had to receive him just as she was in her gingham house dress and apron.
After looking all over the place he took Georgina down to the garden and posed her on a stone bench near the sun-dial, at the end of a tall, bright aisle of hollyhocks. There was no time to waste.
“We’ll pretend you’re sitting on the stone rim of a great fountain in the King’s garden,” he said. “You’re trying to find some trace of the beautiful Princess who has been bewitched and carried away to a castle under the sea, that had ‘a ceiling of amber, a pavement of pearl.’”
Georgina looked up, delighted that he had used a line from a poem she loved. It made her feel as if he were an old friend.
“This is for a fairy tale that has just begun to hatch itself out in my mind, so you see it isn’t all quite clear yet. There’ll be lily pads in the fountain. Maybe you can hear what they are saying, or maybe the gold-fish will bring you a message, because you are a little mortal who has such a kind heart that you have been given the power to understand the speech of everything which creeps or swims or flies.”
Georgina leaned over and looked into the imaginary fountain dubiously, forgetting in her interest of the moment that her companion was the great Milford Norris Locke. She was entering with him into the spirit of his game of “pretend” as if he were Richard.
“No, I’ll tell you,” she suggested. “Have it a frog instead of a fish that brings the message. He can jump right out of that lily pad on to the edge of the fountain where I am sitting, and then when you look at the picture you can see us talking together. No one could tell what I was doing if they saw me just looking down into the fountain, but they could tell right away if the frog was here and I was shaking my finger at him as if I were saying:
“’Now tell me the truth, Mr. Frog, or the Ogre of the Oozy Marsh shall eat you ere the day be done.’”
“Don’t move. Don’t move!” called Mr. Locke, excitedly. “Ah, that’s perfect. That’s exactly what I want. Hold that pose for a moment or two. Why, Georgina, you’ve given me exactly what I wanted and a splendid idea besides. It will give the fairy tale an entirely new turn. If you can only hold that position a bit longer, then you may rest.”