“Yes, of course.” Towne wished that Hallam wouldn’t talk about Adelaide. He wished that all of the others would go away and leave him alone with Jane.
“Mrs. Laramore,” said Jane unexpectedly, “makes me think of the lady of Shallott. I don’t know why. But I do. I have really never seen such a beautiful woman. But she doesn’t seem real. I have a feeling that if anything hit her, she’d break like china.”
They laughed at her, and Edith said, “Adelaide will never break. She’ll melt. She’s as soft as wax.” Then pigeonholing Mrs. Laramore for more vital matters. “Uncle Fred, I am going out to Baldy’s studio; he’s painting Jane.”
Frederick was at once interested. “Her portrait?”
“No. A sketch for a magazine competition,” Baldy explained.
“May I see it?”
Baldy, yearning for solitude and Edith, gave reluctant consent. “Come on, everybody.”
So everybody, including Dr. Hallam and Mrs. Follette, made their way to the garage.
Edith and young Baldwin arrived first. “And this is where you work,” she said, softly.
“Yes. Look here, will you sit here so that I can feast my eyes on you? I’ve dreamed of you in that chair—in classic costume. Do you know that you were made for a goddess?”