She tried to steady her thoughts by taking inventory of the room’s contents, but it added to her bewilderment. There was something of every period in furnishings—shrug-shouldered French, the burly Jacobean, the Victorian redolent of posies, curls and lace mitts, subtle Oriental and convenient Mission—there was rare glass which had successfully imprisoned Italian sunshine, Holland delft-ware, cloisonne, snowy linen panels from China encrusted with gold dragons, lamps with the magic of India and great jars of Navajo pottery. Behind the desk was a door halfway ajar—Thurley caught her breath as she looked at it. This must be the sacred spot where one was “tried out.” The agent finally arranging the interview had told them that when Bliss Hobart was convinced he had a find, he went into the little anteroom and played accompaniments or scales or whatever he wished, while he tested voices. But before he heard one sing, he had a way of deciding whether or not it was worth while to pass through the anteroom door.
Thurley wondered if she could make any sound at all—her voice seemed frozen. Supposing she did not meet Miss Clergy’s expectations? Supposing she were forced to return to Birge’s Corners or to stay in New York as a ribbon clerk, sharing another ribbon clerk’s hall bedroom? She began looking at the collection of autographed photographs which lined the walls, the marble statues, the bas reliefs, some paintings of an interesting, delicate sort in pastels and shadowy outlines which hung close beside the teakwood desk. Then the portrait of a striking, but not beautiful, woman claimed Thurley’s attention. The woman had a clever, quick face with flashing black eyes, almost as black as Dan’s, and blue-black hair, quite like Dan’s, combed into a huge knot at the nape of her thin, yet attractive, neck. She were a Grecian frock—two layers of white voile and a layer of black with a jet cord for a girdle. It was a merciless frock, Thurley decided, for it showed the woman’s bony, frail figure and unlovely, long arms with wonderfully live hands and surprisingly stubby fingers. On the third finger of each hand was an antique ring, the glow of the jewels shining on the white lap of her frock. Something about the picture fascinated Thurley. She was wondering if this woman were not Bliss Hobart’s wife; if she did not find it a stupendous task to be as clever and as keen as her husband. Yet those well-modeled scarlet lips and the rather masculine chin told Thurley that the woman was equal to almost any task. By contrast, glancing in a side mirror, Thurley felt herself overdone and impossible. She longed to exit silently and drop down the nearest elevator shaft in peaceful oblivion.
Before she had reached the studio she had felt sure of herself, scornful of criticism. Miss Clergy told her she looked a picture in her frock of white crêpe, embroidered with dull red, and a smart crimson sailor to match. But as she pulled off her gloves in nervousness she felt unfit, impossible, one mammoth gaucherie—her wilful brown hair would creep out in untidy strands and her face grow flushed in spite of the conventional coating of powder. She wondered what Dan Birge would say if he came into the studio of the “wisest and most cynical man in New York’s art world” and saw her!
“Ah,” Hobart was saying, “we can go inside now—”
Thurley started. Miss Clergy was sitting in blissful rapture in an easy chair by the window, her gray head nodding at Thurley in delight.
Thurley wondered how long she had been standing spellbound. She had thought and felt so many strange things and emotions that the time she was sure must be great.
“I won’t keep you out here,” Hobart was saying, just the suggestion of a blur in his pleasant voice. “Some one might stray in, and I’ve an appointment for lunch. Miss Clergy, please help yourself to something to read.”
“I sha’n’t be lonesome,” Miss Clergy answered. They were a strange pair, this wild-rose girl and the little ghost-lady who had quickened just in time to make the wild rose become hothouse variety.
“What were you looking at so intently?” Hobart paused before they went ahead.
“That picture of your wife,” Thurley answered without delay.