Constance threw up her hands. “There, Mary, your niche is carved. I don't quite know what Mr. Gunther means, but he sounds right.”
Mary found her voice. “Mr. Gunther honors me very much, and, although of course I do not deserve his praise, I shall certainly not refuse his request.”
Gunther bowed gravely from the hips in the Continental manner, without rising.
“When may I come,” he asked; “to-morrow? Good! I will bring the clay out by auto.”
“You lucky woman,” exclaimed Constance. “To think of being immortalized by two great artists in one year!”
“Her type is very rare,” said Gunther in explanation. “When does one see the classic face with expression added? Almost always, it is dull.”
“Now, Mary, produce the infant!” Constance did not intend the whole morning to be devoted to the Olympian discourse of the sculptor.
The baby was brought down, and the rest of the visit pivoted about him. Mary glowed at the praises he received; she looked immeasurably brighter, Constance thought, than when they arrived.
On the way home Gunther unbosomed himself of a final pronouncement. “She does not look too happy, but her beauty is richer and its meaning deeper than before. She is what the mothers of men should be. I am sorry,” he concluded simply, “that I did not meet her more than a year ago.”
Constance almost gasped. What an advantage, she thought, great physical gifts bring. Even without this man's distinction in his art, it was obvious that he had some right to assume his ability to mate with whomever he might choose.