“Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long,” said Fanny.
“I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind,” answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked.
“Come in!” said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools.
“Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire.”
As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk.
“You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want,” said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe.
“How do you get on?” asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing.
“Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?” said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue.
“How beautiful it is!” cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect.
“What does it mean to you?” asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes.