In their new familiarity he made bold to lift the coverings of some of her work that she thought unworthy of display. She became gay over some of her failures, as she called them. She didn’t throw them away because they kept her humble.
On a table in a corner of the room stood a bust covered with a cloth to which they came last.
“Another magnum opus?” he asked carelessly. She lifted the cloth and stood away from it.
“Mr. Mills gave me some sittings. But this is my greatest fizzle of all; I simply couldn’t get him!”
The features of Franklin Mills had been reproduced in the clay with mechanical fidelity; but unquestionably something was lacking. Bruce studied it seriously, puzzled by its deficiencies.
“Maybe you can tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “It’s curious that a thing can come so close and fail.”
“It’s a true thing,” remarked Bruce, “as far as it goes. But you’re right; there’s something that isn’t there. If you don’t mind, it’s dead—there’s—there’s no life in it.”
Millicent touched the clay here and there, suggesting points where the difficulty might lie. She was so intent that she failed to see the changing expression on Bruce’s face. He had ceased to think of the clay image. Mills himself had been in the studio, probably many times. The thought of this stirred the jealousy in Bruce’s heart—Millicent and Mills! Every kind and generous thought he had ever entertained for the man was obliterated by this evidence that for many hours he had been there with Millicent. But she, understanding nothing of this, was startled when he flung round at her.
“I think I can tell you what’s the matter,” he said in a tone harsh and strained. “The fault’s not yours!”
“No?” she questioned wonderingly.