“I shall travel for a year and then, may be, I shall stay a couple of years in Paris, studying at the Beaux Arts. Then I may go to Rome. If I am to do anything worth while in the career I have chosen I must have that European training.”
“Paris! Rome!” echoed Shirley. “How I envy you! Yes, you are right. Get away from this country where the only topic, the only thought is money, where the only incentive to work is dollars. Go where there are still some ideals, where you can breathe the atmosphere of culture and art.”
Forgetting momentarily her own troubles, Shirley chatted on about life in the art centres of Europe, advised Jefferson where to go, with whom to study. She knew people in Paris, Rome and Munich and she would give him letters to them. Only, if he wanted to perfect himself in the languages, he ought to avoid Americans and cultivate the natives. Then, who could tell? if he worked hard and was lucky, he might have something exhibited at the Salon and return to America a famous painter.
“If I do,” smiled Jefferson, “you shall be the first to congratulate me. I shall come and ask you to be my wife. May I?” he added,
Shirley smiled gravely.
“Get famous first. You may not want me then.”
“I shall always want you,” he whispered hoarsely, bending over her. In the dim light of the porch he saw that her tear-stained face was drawn and pale. He rose and held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” he said simply.
“Good-bye, Jefferson.” She rose and put her hand in his. “We shall always be friends. I, too, am going away.”