“One of those women in a bath-tub!” Mrs. Anthon ejaculated.
“Whatever you do, my dear Miss Anthon,” Erard continued tranquilly, “go slow. Get one good thing at a time, and make your house a shrine for that.”
Miss Anthon felt as if she were being tutored for some missionary service. About to go forth to the wilderness, she was receiving the last advice of the father superior.
“Of course you will be coming over here frequently to get your ideas straightened out, and to fortify your tastes. Six months there will make you provincial.”
Occasionally this note of condescension stung her. “Of course we shall travel a great deal.” Her conception of the future was large. She and her husband were to take their life, which happened to be for the immediate present in a western metropolis, and mould it in an original and free pattern. The years of great things were just ahead.
She had refused to look at the picture until it should be in nearly final shape. One afternoon, towards the end of their stay in Paris, she took Molly Parker with her for a first view. Erard was in, when they arrived, standing idly before the picture, which he had brought out into the centre of the empty studio. He was smoking a cigarette, in a mincing manner, his hands in his pockets. The two women sank into the chairs he placed for them.
Erard had insisted upon painting her in a white satin evening dress, half reclining upon a crimson divan as though tired by the fatigue of receiving. It was undoubtedly a clever piece of work, painted knowingly and for the world successfully. He had made the most of her tall form, her ability to carry clothes. He had turned her indefinably from a girl to a woman; her physique seemed a bit more robust and solid than actually true; her face, a trifle full and less mobile. In expression she wore a half-smile, looking down at the roses which drooped from her hot hand. Yet it was not the expression of one altogether pleased with herself, in spite of the smile, which seemed to be caused by some pleasant flattery that still hung in her mind.
After the first long look, Miss Anthon glanced reproachfully at Erard.
“You haven’t painted me.”
“Wait five years,” he emitted shortly, dangling the cigarette from his lips.