"My child, the time comes when the artist becomes too self-conscious, with no criticism, no audience as corrective. Suppose we make a compact of friendship together; then we can freely give and take from each other."
A sudden mist clouded her eyes. She let him see it, in the direct glance she gave him. It touched him deeply, it suggested so poignantly the woman's loneliness.
"You agree?" he asked gently.
"Oh, yes."
"The World and his Wife are my acquaintances, but of friends I have few. Is it so with you?"
"I have none."
"How can that be? I feel that you would have a talent for friendship."
"I believe I would have. But I am poor. The things I might offer would not interest the people I know."
"But these artists—aren't they congenial?"
"Miss Roberts would be, but you see I occupy an anomalous position here. I'm an upper servant, who is no servant. True to my group, I have my class distinctions," she smiled. "Miss Roberts ignores them. She would be my friend if I would let her. Some of the others would, too, I think."