“Jim! Your work is charming!”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have everything you ever did! I sent for the magazines and cut them out; and they are in my scrapbook––” 322
She hesitated, breathless, smiling back at him out of her beautiful golden-grey eyes as though challenging him to doubt her loyalty or her belief in him.
It was rather curious, too, for the girl was unusually intelligent and discriminating; and Neeland’s work was very, very commonplace.
His face had become rather sober, but the smile still lurked on his lips.
“Rue,” he said, “you are wonderfully kind. But I’m afraid I know about my work. I can draw pretty well, according to school standards; and I approach pretty nearly the same standards in painting. Probably that is why I became an instructor at the Art League. But, so far, I haven’t done anything better than what is called ‘acceptable.’”
“I don’t agree with you,” she said warmly.
“It’s very kind of you not to.” He laughed and walked to the window again, and stood there looking out across the sunny garden. “Of course,” he added over his shoulder, “I expect to get along all right. Mediocrity has the best of chances, you know.”
“You are not mediocre!”