Bobs arrived early to see the baby put to bed. She adored him, even to his mother's entire content. She referred to him as His Majesty, brought him gifts, surrounded him with adoration and incense.
"Great excitement in my shop to-day," she said, when they were down in the studio, waiting for Martin. "I got a commission for a fountain to stand in a public square in Columbus, Ohio."
"Good work, Bobs, we'll crack a bottle on it to-night and celebrate your luck," cried Jerry, wringing her hand.
"I am delighted, dear," said Jane. "Any plans for it?"
"Not yet. I'm in that agonized state of groping for the idea. You know—something inside clutching in the dark, darting here and there, trying to get hold of things that slip away. No torture like it."
"Also no satisfaction like the minute when the idea comes, like the night-blooming cereus, in the dark."
"Yes, that's the fun, and later, examining the leaves, the blossom, the calyx, the stem, saying to yourself, 'Why, of course, how else?'"
"Queer, isn't it, how it comes to each one of us differently—one plant for you, another for me, and still another for Jane," Jerry remarked.
"That is why it seems to me so important to cultivate your own, it is so essentially yours," Jane said, in her serious way.
"Yes, if you don't forget that, at a big flower show, you may be a violet in the chrysanthemum exhibit," Bobs teased.