The gentleness and respect of his tone touched and pleased her. She felt that it implied more approval and sympathy than he liked to express. Unconsciously her eyes thanked him; and when they parted a little later in one of the courts of the Vatican, each felt that the awkwardness of meeting was over, and that there was no reason why they should shrink from meeting again.
"I have wronged her," said Earle to himself as he strolled away. "She is not the absolutely mercenary and heartless creature I had come to believe her. I might have known that I was wrong, or Miss Alford would not make a friend of her. Whoever she likes must be worthy of being liked."
CHAPTER XXXII.
It was soon apparent to Marion that Claire's talent was as fully recognized by the artists who made her circle now, as it had been by the nuns in the quiet convent she had left. They praised her work, they asked her judgment upon their own, and they prophesied a great future for her—a future of the highest distinction and the most solid rewards.
"I knew how it would be, Claire," Marion said one day, as she sat in the studio of the young artist watching her at work. "I always knew that you would succeed, whoever else failed. Do you remember our last conversation together—you and Helen and I—the evening before we left school, when we told one another what we desired most in life? I said money; well, I have had it, and was forced to choose between giving it up or giving up my self-respect. I have found out already that there are worse things than to be poor. Helen said happiness—poor, dear Helen! and the happiness of which she was thinking slipped out of her fingers like a vapor. But you, Claire,—you chose something worthy: you chose success in art, and God has given it to you."
"Yes," observed Claire, meditatively, "I have had some success; I feel within myself the power to do good work, and my power is recognized by those whose praise is of value. I feel that my future is assured—that I can make money enough for all my needs, and also the fame which it is natural for every artist to desire. But, Marion, do you know that with this realization has come a great sense of its unsatisfactoriness? There are days in which I lay down my brushes and say to myself 'Cui bono?' as wearily as the most world-weary man."
"Claire, it is impossible!"
Claire smiled a little sadly as she went on mixing her colors. "It is very possible and very true," she said. "And I suppose the moral of it is that there is no real satisfaction in the possession of any earthly ideal. We desire it, we work for it, and when we get it we find that it has no power to make us happy. We three, each of us in different ways, found that out, Marion."
"But there was no similarity in the ways," replied Marion. "Mine was an unworthy ideal, and Helen's a foolish one; but yours was all that it ought to be, and it seems to me that you should be perfectly happy in the attainment of it."