“What have you been doing with your sculpting? Please bring me up to date on everything,” he said.
“Oh, not so much lately. You might like to see some children’s heads I’ve been doing. I bring some of the little convalescents to the house from the hospital to give them a change.”
“Lucky kids!” he said. “To be brought here and played with.”
“Why not? They’re entitled to all I have as much as I am.”
“Revolutionist! Really, Millicent, you must be careful!”
Yes; no matter how little he saw of her, their amity and concord strengthened. Sometimes she looked at him in a way that quickened his heartbeat. As they went down from the organ his hand touched hers and he thrilled at the fleeting contact. A high privilege, this, to be near her, to be admitted to the sanctuary of her mind and heart. She had her clichés; harmony was a word she used frequently, and colors and musical terms she employed with odd little meanings of her own.
In the studio she showed him a plaque of her mother’s head which he knew to be creditable work. His praise of it pleased her. She had none of the amateur’s simpering affectation and false modesty. She said frankly she thought it the best thing she had done.
“I know mamma—all her expressions—and that makes a difference. You’ve got to see under the flesh—get the inner light even in clay. I might really get somewhere if I gave up everything else,” she said pensively as they idled about the studio.
“Yes; you could go far. Why not?”
“Oh, but I’d have to give up too much. I like life—being among people; and I have my father and mother. I think I’ll go on just as I am. If I got too serious about it I might be less good than now, when I merely play at it....”