“Most of them aren’t Nature’s errors. They are the mistakes of the foolish human. Take almost any woman, not past the age of development, build up her figure to be supple and self-sustaining; give her a clear eye, quick-moving blood, fresh skin, and some interest in the game of life that shall keep mind and body alert—why, the radiant force of her abounding health would make itself felt in a blind asylum. And all this she can do for herself, with a little knowledge and a good deal of will.”
“But that isn’t exactly beauty, is it?” asked Clyde, puzzled.
“Isn’t it? In the soundest sense, I think it is. Anyway, put it this way: No woman who is wholly healthy, inside and out, can fail to be attractive.”
“I wish that painter-man could see Louise now, as an example,” said Grandma Sharpless.
“Oren Taylor?” said Mr. Clyde. “Why, he can. He goes East next week, and I’ll wire him to stop over.”
Oren Taylor arrived late on a warm afternoon. As he crossed the lawn, Louise Ennis was playing “catch” with Manny Clyde. Her figure swung and straightened with the lithe muscularity of a young animal. Her cheek was clear pink, deepening to the warmer color of the curved lips. The blue veins stood out a little against the warm, moist temples from which she brushed a vagrant lock of hair. Her eyes were wide and lustrous with the eager effort of the play, for the boy was throwing wide in purposeful delight over her swift gracefulness.
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed the artist, staring at her. “Who did that?”
“Strong did that,” explained Clyde; “as per specifications.”
“A triumph!” declared Taylor. “A work of art.”
“Oh, no,” said Dr. Strong; “a renewal of Nature.”