She made a real effort to control that unbridled temper, to subdue that fierce pride that could endure no slightest contradiction. She saw, as she could always see, where her own best interest lay; that if she wished to get on with these comrades, she must make concessions.
“Very well,” she said. “Have her, if you want.”
Rosaleen was not to be outdone in magnanimity.
“I don’t want you to be bothered,” she said. “I’ll try to keep her from interrupting your work the least bit. It’s only—if you please won’t be rude to her.... Because she’s really very nice.”
“But can’t you see!” cried Miss Bainbridge, with a sort of despair. “I’m not like you. If I’m surrounded by mushy, stupid, jabbering people, it—harms me! If I were kind to people like that, I’d ruin myself. You hear about people being killed with kindness. Well, a great many more people are killed—or destroyed—by being kind. No one who amounts to anything can be so damn kind. It’s often necessary to be cruel; and it’s always necessary to be indifferent. My job is to paint—to the very best of my ability. It doesn’t matter how Miss Waters feels. The world isn’t going to be any better or any worse for her feelings.”
Rosaleen reflected for some time. Then she spoke, thoughtfully and firmly:
“I guess Art isn’t as important as all that!” she said.
CHAPTER TWO
I
The next afternoon they were all settled peacefully at work. They had agreed to give up the idea of getting all in order first; they had decided that they would do a little every day.