“Perhaps he liked to see me—knitting——”
Baldy passed this over in puzzled silence.
“Where’s the fruit?”
“In the house.”
He rose. “I’ll go in with you——” He felt out of sorts, discouraged. The morning had been spent in sketching vague outlines—a sweep of fair hair under a blue hat—detached feet in shoes with shining buckles—a bag that hung in the air without hands. At intervals he had stood up and looked out at the blank snow and the dull sky. The room was warm enough, but he shivered. He suffered vicariously for Edith Towne. He had hoped that she might telephone. He had stayed home really for that.
His studio was in the garage and was heated by a little round stove. Jane said the garage reminded her of the Boffins’ parlor—a dead line was drawn between art and utility. Baldy’s rug and old couch and paints and brushes flung a challenge as it were to the little Ford, the lawn mower, the garden hose and the gasoline cans.
“I have spent three hours doing nothing,” he said, as he shut the door behind him; “not much encouragement in that.”
“I have a model for you.”
“Where?”
“I’ll show you.”