"You see," she confided to Sylvia, "the men seem like a new sex—neither men nor women."
Sylvia stood off regarding her work—she smiled happily and replied:
"They are, dear lamb. The girls will all, eventually, put on; fill up"—Sylvia added a dab of clay to a doubtful curve—"but men, when they chip off from the approved design, look like nothing on earth but daubs!"
"Yes," Joan added, "that's what I mean." Then, with a thoughtful puckering of the brows, "the girls will be women, somehow, but what will become of these—this new sex, Syl?"
Sylvia was tense as she eyed her work. She answered vaguely:
"Some of them will crawl up, and do things and justify themselves, the others will——"
"Will what, Syl?"—for Sylvia was moving like a panther upon her prey—her prey being the small figure on the pedestal.
"Do this—or have it done for them!" and at this the offending clay was dashed to atoms.
"Failure!" breathed Sylvia—"mess!"
Then with characteristic quickness she began a new design. Joan watched her and caught a sudden insight. She realized what it was that marked Sylvia for success. Presently she asked musingly: