Ali Baba, important in a new uniform, came across the lawn to tell Thurley the New York train had brought her four guests.
“You’ll be real glad to see three of them, and real sorry to see the fourth,” he whispered patronizingly, “the fourth is that artist—he’s blind!”
Polly sprang to her feet. “I knew it—I knew it,” she said breathlessly.
It was quite true. The over brilliant, joyous eyes faced the darkness for all time. Mark Wirth had acted as his courier and as the trio came into the reception room, Ernestine and Caleb stood in the background and Collin tried to smile at them while Mark raised his hand to suppress their exclamations.
“We’ve come to belong to Ali Baba’s forty thieves,” said Ernestine, to break the silence. “We’re as tired and hungry as four people can be. Collin has splendid things to tell you, he is very shy about letting us know how wonderful he has been.” Her voice broke and she looked at Caleb to take up the burden.
But Caleb was staring at Collin, whose sensitive face quivered as a woman’s does before she cries. He made no response.
Hobart came and took his hand. “I’m mighty proud of you, old man; you get yourself rested up and forget the haughty beauties waiting to be painted in their best togs.... You’ll have to be a sculptor in spite of yourself.”
“The master said, ‘All an artist needs is to trust his eyes,’” Collin repeated.
“Ah, but his inner eyes—which never dim,” Thurley corrected, coming over to kiss his cheek. “Here is Polly waiting to kiss you on both cheeks. Why, Collin, you’ve just come home twice as precious; that’s all, isn’t it?—just come home.”
Polly stood back, afraid that his hands would reach up to touch her cheeks and discover the tears.