Neville and Valerie went away together, and Rita returned to the studio. Burleson was reading again, and scowling; and he scarcely noticed her. She seated herself by the fire and looked into the big bare studio beyond where the electric light threw strange shadows over shrouded shapes of wet clay and blocks of marble in the rough or partly hewn into rough semblance of human figures.
It was a damp place at best; there were always wet sponges, wet cloths, pails of water, masses of moist clay about. Her blue eyes wandered over it with something approaching fear—almost the fear of hatred.
"John," she said, "why won't you go to a dry climate for a few months and get rid of your cold?"
"Do you mean Arizona?"
"Or some similar place: yes."
"Well, how am I to do any work out there? I've got commissions on hand.
Where am I going to find any place to work out in Arizona?"
"Build a shanty."
"That's all very well, but there are no models to be had out there."
"Why don't you do some Indians?"
"Because," said John wrathfully, "I haven't any commissions that call for Indians. I've two angels, a nymph and a Diana to do; and I can't do them unless I have a female model, can I?"