"Perhaps I will one of these days."
The hotel gradually filled up. The great painter had come and with him his satellites, chiefly young American women, who "painted all over the place," as Bragdon put it. The long table d'hôte under the plane trees was a cheerful if somewhat noisy occasion these summer nights, with the black, star-strewn canopy above. They all drank the bottled cider and talked pictures and joked and sang when so moved. Even if the spirit was somewhat cheaply effervescent, like the cider, there was plenty of talk, clashing of eager ideas, and Milly liked it even more than Bragdon. He seemed older than the other artists, perhaps because he was married and less given to idle chatter. The great man singled him out for companionship after the first week, and gave patronizing praise to his work.
"You are still young," he said, with a sigh for his own sixty years. "Wait another ten years and you may find something to say."
Jack, repeating these words to his wife, added,—"And where do you suppose we'd be if I should wait another ten years? On the street."
Tell an American to wait ten years in order to have something to say!
"He's jealous," Milly pronounced. "You're going to do something stunning this summer, I just know it."
"How do you know it?" he asked teasingly.
"Because we can't wait ten years!"
"Um," the artist sighed, "I should think not."