“Perhaps it isn’t too late,” said the amateur missionary hopefully. “Is he a man to whom one could offer money?”
The Bonnie Lassie’s smile broadened without change in its subtle quality. “Julien Tenney isn’t exactly a pauper. He just thinks he can’t afford to do the kind of thing he wants and ought to.”
“What ought he to do?”
“Paint—paint—paint!” said the Bonnie Lassie vehemently. “Five years ago I believe he had the makings of a great painter in him. And now look what he’s doing!”
“Making marks on sidewalks, you mean?”
“Worse. Commercial art.”
“Designs and that sort of thing?”
“Do you ever look at the unearthly beautiful, graceful and gloriously dressed young super-Americans who appear in the advertisements, riding in super-cars or wearing super-clothes or brushing super-teeth with super-toothbrushes?”
“I suppose so,” said the girl vaguely.
“He draws those.”