On the way to his hotel Ruth told her about her decision to go in for cartooning professionally, and she rather hoped that Dorothy would discourage her, but she was disappointed.
“Splendid! You’re doing the right thing. You know I don’t think you’ll ever get any place with painting. Nels thinks that, too, but you have a genius for caricature. Those things in the Express were really clever. Lots of character and good action. You’ll be famous.”
“Famous!” Ruth put as much scorn as possible into the one word.
“Of course—beginning with Cruickshank there have been ever so many caricature artists in the last two centuries whose names will last as long and longer than most of the painters.”
Ruth did not respond to this. She was wondering if after all she might not one day, not only be reconciled to the work destiny had given her, but be actually rather proud of it.
They were expected by Professor Pendragon and were conducted immediately to his apartment, but when the boy knocked at his door, he did not open it as on the former occasion, instead they were met by a white uniformed nurse.
“Professor Pendragon begs to be excused from his appointment. He is very much worse. The paralysis has extended from his knee to his hip. He asked me to say that he will be glad to make good his promise as soon as he is well.”
The effect of this announcement was bad enough on Dorothy, who naturally was bitterly disappointed, but its effect on Ruth was much worse. Professor Pendragon’s misfortune had fallen upon him on the night that she first watched George, and a repetition of George’s ceremonial had brought with it the increased misfortune to him that she had feared. She was eager to hurry away and find an opportunity to tell Terry of this new development, but Dorothy lingered at the door, expressing sympathy, which Ruth suspected was more for herself than for Professor Pendragon.
Professor Pendragon called to the nurse to let them come in. He was propped up on a chaise longue, with newspapers and the remains of breakfast scattered about on the floor and on a low table beside him. His face was very pale and Ruth thought that he looked as if he had not slept. She tried not to look at some photographs of Gloria prominently displayed on the scattered sheets. Evidently he had seen them, so now he knew that she was in New York, or at least in America.
“I’m awfully sorry to disappoint you and myself. But you see a man can’t have his portrait painted in a pose like this,” he said. “I can’t imagine what’s wrong with me, but of course it won’t last long. A friend of mine has asked me out to his place in the Berkshires and I think I’ll go. Perhaps this may be the result of nerves, and anyway, lots of cold air and altitude and quiet can’t do any harm. When I return I’ll be very glad to make good, but perhaps by that time you will have so many commissions that you won’t have time for me.”