By some necromancy of the mind he mirrored back her own vague hopes.
"But I am a woman," she said, eager for more.
"So much the better. You live in woman's day. But don't forget that you have given me a part of it," he added, as she rose. "My own particular solar day isn't ended yet. When we first met, you had me to luncheon, or was it breakfast? I'm going to return the courtesy."
"But—"
"You couldn't be more appropriately dressed for a park restaurant," he cut in, pursuing her glance. "They'll serve us under an arbor where the wistaria blooms in May. We'll have to pretend about the wistaria, but it ought to be easy. The great pretense has come true."
XX
She learned from MacGregor what Atwood's modest "I paint" signified.
"He is an illustrator who illustrates," he told her their first day, while they worked. "I mean—left arm a trifle higher, please; you've shifted the pose—I mean he gets into the skin of a writer's characters, when they have any. If they're mere abstractions, he creates blood, bones, and epidermis for them outright. Rarer thing than you imagine, I dare say, in spite of the newspaper jokes. You can count the men on one hand who do it here in New York, and to my mind Craig deserves the index finger. He'd find a soul for a rag doll. But I'm only telling you what any top-notch magazine you pick up says more forcibly."
Jean cloaked her ignorance in silence and put her trust in MacGregor's enthusiasm for further light. After an industrious interval it came.