"He might have been, if he'd had the chance. But he had to work at other things, and he married—"
"I know, I know," MacGregor groaned. "Love in a cottage and to hell with art! But he couldn't keep his thoughts or his hands from it. He modeled when he could?"
Jean nodded dreamily.
"Sundays, mainly," she answered. "We used to go into the country together. He found a bed of good clay near a creek where the mint grew. I can never smell mint without remembering. I couldn't go back there after he died."
MacGregor gave her a sidelong glance, hemmed, made an unnecessary trip across the studio, and kicked a fallen burnous violently.
"But you went on modeling?" he asked, returning.
"Yes—by and by. Then, later, I stopped."
"Why?"
"I—I hadn't the clay?" she evaded.
MacGregor brooded over her handiwork a moment longer, then squared his jaw.