“Is it like you thought it would be?” asked Patty, as Christine stood, with clasped hands, gazing.
“Yes; in its lines. For, of course, I’ve seen pictures of it. But I didn’t know it was so alive.”
“Yes,” said Patty, with a nod of comprehension, “that’s the way it seems to me. Really alive, and always responsive to my moods and thoughts.”
“I didn’t know you had moods and thoughts,” said Christine, smiling at Patty a little quizzically.
“’Deed I have! Perhaps not such subtle and temperamental ones as yours or Mr. Hepworth’s, but perfectly good moods and thoughts, all the same.”
“Why do you class mine with Mr. Hepworth’s?”
“Because you’re both artists. Aren’t artists supposed to have most impressive and unspeakable thoughts at sight of the ocean or the moon or the purple shadows on the distant hills?”
“Patty, I suppose you’re making fun of me, but I don’t mind a bit. And, of one thing I’m sure, whatever your thoughts may be, they’re never unspeakable!”
“Right you are, Christine! I’m glad you appreciate my talent for volubility! That’s why I like the sea. I can talk to it all day, and it is most appreciative, but it never talks back.”
“Oh, it talks back to me! It has told me lots of things already.”