"Don't move. That would be superb in marble!" Miss Marston blushed painfully.
"How strange you are," she murmured, as she rose. "You just said that you had given up modelling, or I would let you model my arm in order to give you something to do. You should try to stick to something."
"Don't be trite," laughed Clayton, "and don't make me consistent. You will keep yourself breathless if you try that!"
"I know what you need," she said, persistently unmindful of his admonition. "You need the spur. It doesn't make so much difference what you do—you're clever enough."
"'Truth from the mouths of babes——'"
"I am not a babe." She replied to his mocking, literally. "Even if I am stupid and commonplace, I may have intuitions like other women."
"Which lead you to think that it's all chance whether Raphael paints or plays on the piano. Well, I don't know that you are so absurd. That's my theory: an artist is a fund of concentrated, undistributed energy that has any number of possible outlets, but selects one. Most of us are artists, but we take so many outlets that the hogshead becomes empty by leaking. Which shall it be? Shall we toss up a penny?"
"Painting," said Miss Marston, decisively. "You must stick to that."
"How did you arrive at that conclusion—have you observed my work?"
"No! I'll let you know some time, but now you must go to work. Come!" She rose, as if to go down to the lodge that instant. Clayton, without feeling the absurdity of the comedy, rose docilely and followed her down the path for some distance. He seemed completely dominated by the sudden enthusiasm and will that chance had flung him.