"They're business-men," returned Virgilia. "For our own credit—for our own salvation, indeed—we must be clear-cut and definite. Even if we are artists we mustn't give those hard-headed old fellows any chance to accuse us of wabbling, of shilly-shallying. We must try to be as business-like as they are. So let's get in our work—and get it in first."
Daffingdon's eyes roamed the rugs, the hangings, the furniture. "'The
Genius of the City,'" he murmured vaguely, "'Encouraging—Encouraging'—"
"Yes, yes," spoke Virgilia, doing a little encouraging herself.
"Or, 'The—The Westward Star of Empire Illuminating the'——" proceeded
Daffingdon mistily, raising his eyes toward the electrolier.
"Yes, yes," responded Virgilia quickly, by way of further encouragement.
"Or—or—'The Triumphal March of Progress through Our'——" Daffingdon confusedly dipped the wrong end of the penholder into the big sprawling inkstand.
Virgilia's teeth began to feel for her lips, and her eyebrows to draw themselves down in an impatient little frown of disappointment. Not through "Our Midst," she hoped. What was the matter with her idol? What had he done with all his fund of information? What had become of his ideas, his imagination? She felt that if she were to approach a bit closer to his pedestal and sound him with her knuckles he would be found hollow. What a calamity in such a discovery! She put her hand behind her back and kept her distance.
"'The Genius of the City,'" she mused; "'The Star of Empire.' Those might do for single subjects but not for a general scheme. 'The March of Progress '—that might be better as a broad working basis, although——" She saw the "lady" seated on the cogged wheel beneath the factory chimney and stopped.
"'The Prairie-Schooner'—'The Bridging of the Mississippi'—'The Last of the Buffaloes'—' The Corner-Stones of New Capitols'——" pursued Daffingdon brokenly.
"Would you care very much for that sort of thing?" asked Virgilia.