“Because I'm not a genius.”
“Who knows? To have half-done it is much. The master-genius, Life, has been carving that face out before your eyes. You need but follow.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“Leave it alone for six months. Come back and take the face as it will be then.”
“Then will be too late,” said the girl in a low voice.
“What!” cried the critic, startled. “Your model isn't dying, is he?”
“Oh, no. I—I had something else in mind.”
“Dismiss it. Have nothing else in mind but to finish this.” She paused. “I have seen all I need to. Let us return to your friends.”
Hardly had the hostess seated her guest in the most comfortable corner of the big divan when there was a stir at the door, and a rangy, big-boned figure, clad in the unmistakable garb of honest labor, appeared, blinking a little at the lights. Instantly the Undertaker, in his rôle of official announcer, dashed forward to greet him. “Gentlemen and ladies,” he proclaimed, “introducing Mr. Casey Jones, late of the Salt Lake Line.”
“Sing it, you Son of Toil!” shouted somebody, and Cyrus the Gaunt promptly obliged, in a clear and robust baritone, leading the chorus which came in jubilantly.