To-day he had asked the Anthons to see his apartment and his new picture; for he still painted, cleverly aware that the world, after all, pays a certain homage to the mystery of creation that it denies to mere knowledge. His guests, however, seemed to be impressed more with the apartment in which he had enveloped himself, by the very vulgar facts of physical appointments, than by his excellent picture. The afternoon had engendered a moral opposition which he must overcome in some way. Sebastian Anthon was especially necessary to him just now; he must spend this winter in Spain. And he would like to have this nice old man fall in with the plan, even if it necessitated including his niece, and, at the worst, the voluble lady her mother.
That person could be heard, above the notes of the spinet, in her monologue to the patient Wilbur. “I shall take Adela to Aix-les-Bains as soon as the season opens. I tell her that what she wants is to know people, to meet pleasant friends, not to spend her year over here fooling about in a studio. I guess she hasn’t any great talent. Walter has set his heart on making a writer of himself, and I guess one genius in the family is enough.” The purple bows on Mrs. Anthon’s new Parisian hat tossed in time with the vehement workings of her short, thick body. She had settled into an aggressive pace.
Erard paused for a moment by her side, and then, as the music faded out, stepped back to Miss Anthon. Her face, which was turned towards the light, wore a look of tolerance, and the restless tapping of one foot upon the marquetry betrayed a stifled criticism of her mother’s chatter.
The young artist noted that the moulding of the face had been begun freely and graciously. Nothing was final. It might be interesting to know where the next few years would place the emphasis. Meantime the impulse of life was throbbing in that face actively, generously. To feel, to understand, and—what is more—to act swiftly,—a promise of such powers it held forth.
“You are working here?” Erard observed. Miss Anthon turned to him with relief.
“Oh! fooling, as the rest do. It seems so utterly silly, but it is better than shopping perpetually, or running about to see things you don’t understand.”
“Did you do much—earlier?” Erard assumed easily the catechist’s place.
“Never—much—of anything,” she confessed slowly. “But I liked it awfully, only papa wanted me to have a sound education first.”
“Quite wise—that papa.”
“Why?”