"Pretty ladies pay, it might be added, and we need the money just now."
"Face the truth, then. Swear to yourself this is a temporary aberration, and be true to yourself, Paxton."
"Well, if I don't turn out to be my own best self with Jane, and Bobs, and now you after me, I haven't any best self! My own opinion is that I'm probably a rotten second-rater."
"Not even the greatest artists are first-rate all the time, Jerry," Jane urged.
"That lets me out, then," he laughed. "I got some nice effects out there in the fog; it's a soaking white blanket down on the beach."
"You didn't see Bobs?"
"No; is she out? You two been gabbling all morning?"
"Yes, we've had a fine gabble," laughed Christiansen. "I'll put on a mackintosh and go in search of your Miss Bobs."
Jerry went to the door with him, and Jane stole off to her room. She did not want to talk to Jerry just then; she wanted to think over all the things she and Martin had said to each other during those friendly hours.
Out on the muddy road, Christiansen strode along at a great pace. He wanted to be alone, to think out his chaotic thoughts. He had come to the Paxtons' with no idea at all that Jane was to have a child, and the knowledge had come to him with a shock. He had long since admitted to himself that he was more interested in Jane's development, in her search for expression, than he had been in anything for years. He liked the quality of her mind; he thought her possessed of that rare gift, a sense of style. She had absorbed the masters, yet was no pupil of any of them. He was convinced that she had a future, and it was of this he was thinking when he exclaimed at the announcement of her marriage, "Child, child, what have you done?" The baby would be another fetter, and she must be free to work out her artistic salvation. It might be years before that freedom came. Would her gift grow richer, or die for want of use?