“I dislike brutal types—intensely——”
He sat with his chin in his hand, his shoulders hunched up like a faun or Pan at his pipes. “All cavemen aren’t brutal types. Some day I’m going to paint a picture of a man carrying off a woman. And I’m going to make him a slender young god—and she shall be a rather substantial goddess—but she’ll go with him—his spirit shall conquer her——”
She looked at him in surprise. “Then you paint?”
“I’ll say I do. Terrible things—magazine covers. But in the back of my mind there are masterpieces——”
He was a whimsical youngster, she decided. But no end interesting. “I don’t believe your things are terrible. And I shall want to see them——”
“You are going to see them. I have a studio in our garage. I sometimes wonder what happens at night when my little Ford is left alone with my fantasies. It must feel that it is fighting devils——”
He broke off to say, “I’m as garrulous as Jane. Please don’t let me talk any more about myself.”
“Is Jane your sister?”
“Yes. And now let’s get down to realities. Your uncle wants you to come home.”
“I’m not going. I know Uncle Fred. He’ll make me feel like a returned prodigal. He’ll kill the fatted calf, but I’ll always know that there were husks——”