“To Europe?”
“Yes, to Europe.”
“Oh, what a beautiful prospect,” I said. And then leaning against his elbow I heaved a great sigh.
“It must be a beautiful prospect if you groan like that over it.”
“The groan’s because I can’t go.”
Julian sat down and took me indulgently on his knee. Some women in marriage have their pride gratified by a good match, by all the pomps of life, or by unlimited allowances of spending money. But my portion is to be loved and cherished and fondled like an infant. I like it very much. Some part of me lingers in eternal babyhood. In the glass I frequently see a juvenile face with dimples around the mouth, that disowns its thirty years.
“You think,” said Julian, after kissing me in a way which would scandalize some of the girls who made the best matches, “that we can’t raise the money.”
Such a thought would have been justified by the fact that we seldom could raise the money.
“But we can. And what’s the use of waiting around till we are old? I’m in my thirties. And if I ever do anything now’s the time to do it. A man can’t make a success of painting here in the west.”
I looked all around Julian’s studio. He had done many portraits, and hated them. They made our living. But he believed he was wasting time.