She laughed. "How different our points of view! You are Anglo-Saxon, I am French. Art counts far more with us."
"Was your mother French? I did not know that."
"Yes—a Canadian. I have her nature rather than that of my father."
"Sometimes I think you are your father's daughter. Did your mother live to enjoy her husband's success?"
"Not to the full. Still, she had a nice home in Alta, where I was born. She died before he was elected Senator." They had nearly reached the agency now, and she shook off her sober mood. "Shall we go in with a dash?"
"I'm agreed."
She put quirt to her horse and they entered the lane at a flying gallop. As he assisted her to alight at the studio door he said:
"I hope your father will not require you to join him in the East. It is a great pleasure to have you here." His voice touched something vibrant in her heart.
"Oh, I don't think he will when he fully understands the situation. I'm sure I don't want to go. I shall write him so."
Curtis rode away elate as a boy. Something which he did not care to define had come to him from her, subtle as a perfume, intangible as light, and yet it had entered into his blood with most transforming effect. He put aside its analysis, and went about his duties content with the feeling that life was growing richer day by day.