He was amazed. Molly had never crossed the threshold of the workroom before, not having been invited. She had brought her sewing. It was so lonely in the little rooms, she wondered if it wasn't lonesome in the studio as well?
Smoking and walking to and fro, his hands in his pockets, Fairfax glanced at his wife as she took up the little garments on which she was at work. Her skin was stainless as a lily save here and there where the golden fleck of a freckle marred its whiteness. Her reddish hair, braided in strands, was wound flatly around her head.
There was a purity in her face, a Mystery that was holy to him. He crossed over to her side and lit the lamp for her.
"Who suggested your coming? Rainsford?"
"Nobody. I wanted to come, just."
He threw himself down on the sofa near her. "I can't work!" he exclaimed. "I've not been able to do anything for weeks. I reckon I'm no good. I'm going to let the whole thing go."
Molly folded her sewing and laid it on the table. "Would you show me what you've been workin' at, Tony?"
The softness of her brogue had not gone, but she had been a rapid pupil unconsciously taught, and her speech had improved.
"I've destroyed most of my work," he said, hopelessly; "but this is something of the new scheme I've planned."
He went over to the other part of the studio and uncovered the clay in which he had begun to work, and mused before it. He took some clay from the barrel, mixed it and began to model. Molly watched him.