"It meant nothing between them all," said Vesty, her hand over her eyes; "you know that better than I. It is only the way they do."
"It meant nothing! It is only the way they do."
I put away the violin Notely's fingers had so lately touched. The tears stole down Vesty's cheeks and trembled on her lips.
"He does not care," she said; "that is the worst! He does not care as he did once."
"For what, Vesty?"
"For anything but having a good time and making fun with people, and all that. He used to talk with me—oh, so high and noble, about things!" Her eyes flashed, then darkened again with pain.
"Ay, I know he has seen the model and been pierced with it. He can never forget; he will come back."
"The model?"
"You know once there was a Master who was determined all his people should paint him a picture after a great model he had set before them. It seemed not to be an attractive model; it seemed full of pain and loss; the world looked to be full of other designs more desirable.
"So that there were hardly any but that wandered from it, to paint pictures of their own; there was hardly, if ever, a great or a true and patient artist—for they are the same thing.