“Gloria Mayfield—she’s really my aunt,” said Ruth with a desperate realization that she might as well speak now as have her secret come out later under less favourable circumstances. After all, Dorothy didn’t know that Pendragon was one of Gloria’s husbands and she might not mention their relationship to him anyway.
“The actress?” asked Dorothy, with a rising inflection composed of astonishment, envy, and doubt in her voice.
“Uh—huh.” She tried not to be pleased at the look in Dorothy’s blue eyes.
“She’s in pictures, isn’t she, now? I saw her picture in at least three newspapers this morning.”
“I don’t know—I’ve not seen any newspapers this morning,” she answered.
“Will I meet her?” asked Dorothy. She was a most distressingly natural and unaffected person. She always said what she thought and asked for what she wanted without the slightest effort at concealment.
“I dare say you will if you come often enough. She’s asleep now, but she’s not at all difficult to meet.”
“Perhaps I could paint her,” again suggested Dorothy.
“I don’t think Gloria could sit still long enough.”
Things were developing too rapidly for Ruth. She had known that Dorothy would be interested, but she had not thought that her interest would take this turn, though she might have guessed, for Dorothy looked at everything and every person as so much available material. She worked incessantly with both hands and brain. She didn’t just study art; she lived it in the most practical manner possible. She was becoming quite well known as a fashion artist and could have been busy all the time, had she not continued her studies. As it was she did quite as much work as many fashion artists who devoted all their time to it. And she never for a moment let herself think that being a fashion artist today would debar her from becoming a famous portrait painter tomorrow. She was building high hopes on Professor Pendragon.