Terry reached down to the floor and picked up a section of newspaper. It was the theatrical section, Ruth saw, even before he handed it to her, and then, that it contained a story about “Three Merry Men,” with a photograph of the leading woman and grouped around it the sketches that Ruth had made caricaturing the players. The sketches had not been signed but under them was a printed caption, “Sketched by Ruth Mayfield.” She stared at the page for some moments, realizing that they were all looking at her and expecting some sort of an outburst. Finally when she sat silent, Billie Irwin, less sensitive than the others, spoke:
“Isn’t it wonderful, Ruth—we’re all so proud and glad for you—to think of seeing your work reproduced, and you’ve only been in New York a few weeks.” She put her plump hand on Ruth’s shoulder with an impulsive gesture.
Ruth restrained an impulse to throw it off. She still kept her head bent, instinctively hiding her eyes until she should gain control of their expression. She realized that every one there thought that Terry had done a fine thing in getting the sketches printed, that Terry himself thought he had done a nice thing. It would be impossible to explain to these people that she considered such work beneath her—that she, the future great painter, did not want to dabble in cartooning. But to them she was only an obscure art student. She must say something soon—her silence was past the limit of surprise.
“How good of you, Mr. Riordan,” she said at last. “I had no idea that you were going to do this when you took my sketches. It’s quite wonderful to see them—to see them in a newspaper like this—”
“My word,” laughed Terry, “I believe that Ruth doesn’t really like it at all, though I meant well, I did indeed, child, and though you don’t know it, cartooning is quite as much art as painting, and quite as difficult if one had not the particular genius for it. I gave the sketches to the Sun critic and he was quite enthusiastic. I dare say you might get a chance to do it right along if you wanted to.”
“Ruth is an ungrateful little wretch if she isn’t both pleased and proud,” said Gloria, smiling fondly at Ruth.
“I am pleased and grateful,” protested Ruth, “but I don’t want to be a cartoonist, not until I’m quite sure that I can never be a painter.”
“Better far be a clever cartoonist than a bad painter,” said John Courtney, “though I understand just how you feel. As a young man, when I first entered the profession I wanted to be a great comedian—I still think I could have been one, for I have a keen sense of humour, but it was not to be, I was, you will pardon me for speaking of it, I was too handsome—my appearance forced me to be a romantic hero—”
He passed one white hand over his grey, curled hair, as he spoke, with a gesture as one who should say, “you can see that I am still handsome and can judge for yourselves of my youth.”
“Your fatal beauty was your ruin,” said Gloria.