“Oh, well!” Mrs. Loring tossed her handsome head. “If you’re determined to be difficile——!”
Lucia, who was pretending to eat a strip of bacon, asked, “Did my drawing-ink come? I ordered some sent down from town, before I left—and a lot of Bristol-board.”
“It came,” said Mrs. Loring, looking at her uneasily. “Lucia, whatever are you——”
“I am going to draw,” said Lucia, with a deep breath. “Ever since I was married, I’ve never had time: first there was Tommy, and then the trip abroad, and then Tommy’s measles, and then John’s accident, and then the new house in the country, and—I’m going to draw, mother! For days and days, and blissful weeks—I’m going to draw!”
Her cheeks were vivid, her eyes afire.
“Oh!” gasped Mrs. Loring, looking at her. “You—you’re going to draw. For—weeks!”
“Yes, mother! And you can tell Ada Barker, and the Temple girls, and whoever else comes, that their fascinations are nothing compared with black-and-white. And if John sends telegrams asking ‘How’s Lucia?’ tell him ‘She’s drawing!’ Do you hear? Tell him ‘She’s drawing!’”
And snatching up her precious parcel that a servant had brought, with an excited little laugh, Lucia fairly flew upstairs. Her mother, left with John Gwynne’s telegram, shook her head, perplexedly.
At luncheon, Lucia appeared, less gay, though still flushed and ardent with intention. “It’s wonderful,” she said, “to have one uninterrupted morning—to know there’s no ordering to be done, and that John won’t come tearing home for early lunch. I really believe I shall accomplish something—if I work,” she added, a little pucker coming between her eyes.
After lunch, she went back to it. Mrs. Loring wished she would lie down and rest her eyes; but she knew Lucia fairly well: she did not suggest it. That night when Ambrose Fayerweather came to dinner, he said warmly, “Well, well! And so the mother tells me you’re at work again, drawing! What energy you youngsters have, to be sure!”