“What can she do?”
“Meet him outside, I suppose.”
“Do you think Paula Varick is the kind of girl to practice hole-and-corner meetings at museums or restaurants?” said the sculptress scornfully.
“There are other places. Here, for instance. Though I suppose you wouldn't allow that.”
This reasonable hypothesis nearly cost old Mrs. Glynn an ear. “Indeed I would! I'd do anything to get ahead of that father of Paula's. The mean old skinkum!” said the Bonnie Lassie, who under great provocation sometimes uses violent language. “But Paula wouldn't come. It's the Varick pride—all that there is of Varick in her, thank Heaven!”
“It has its disadvantages,” I said. “But the point is, does she care for him?”
“Have you seen them together lately? But then, what's the use! You're only a man,” said the Bonnie Lassie with sovereign contempt. For the moment she ceased to be an artist and became a philosopher. “Some people,” she pronounced sagely, “just naturally fall in love by degrees. Some”—her face turned unconsciously toward the outer room where Cyrus the Gaunt was busy, and became dreamy and tender—“run away from love and are overtaken by it. And some go open-hearted and open-armed, to meet it when it comes. That is Paula. She's the type of woman to whom there is only one possible man in the world. He has found her.”
“Does she know it?”
The Bonnie Lassie, smiling, poised her tool above a difficult problem of artistry pertaining to Granny Glynn's front hair (which was false). “You're less stupid than you might be. Her heart does. But her mind hasn't admitted it.”
“Does he know it?”