He pulled himself up abruptly. "I am talking rather dismally, I am afraid, about death and
destruction. You won't want to walk with me again."
"Oh, yes, I shall. And I want to see your pictures."
"You may not care for them. Lots of people don't. But I have to work in my own way——"
As they walked back, he told her what he was trying to do. As she listened, Becky seemed to have two minds, one that caught his words, and answered them, and another which went back and back to the things which had happened since she had last walked this bluff with the wind in her face and the sound of the sea in her ears.
It seemed to her as if a lifetime had elapsed since last she had looked at the Sankaty light.
II
When Becky wrote to Randy, she had a great deal to say about Archibald Cope.
"He is trying to paint the moor. He wants to get its meaning, and then make other people see what it means. He doesn't look in the least like that, Randy—as if he were finding the spirit of things. He has red hair and wears correct clothes, and says the right things, and you feel as if he ought to be in Wall Street buying bonds. But here he is, refusing to believe that anything he has
done is worth while until he does it to his own satisfaction.