Cornelia had not mentioned again her wish to meet Tom’s new friend. It was not necessary. The relation between them was too intimate for that. Tom knew when she was thinking of this: Cornelia knew when Tom had understood her.
“Well, how was the dinner, brother?”
“Are you busy next Sunday afternoon?”
“No.”
“I told Markand you were anxious to meet him. He is in a state of perturbation I hope won’t interfere with his royal job of clerking.”
“Oh, I am glad. But—how was the dinner?”
“You are the first artist he will have met. I have told him about us. Cornelia, you must wear something brighter than that Russian thing. Will you? The sandals will do. Stockings under them, however. A little more air in the meshes of your hair. Yes? Why not that green silk blouse with the orange smocking. I want him to see you’re an artist in some outward visible sign.”
“And the work——?” Cornelia looked at her clays.
“I am afraid he is not quite up to these.”
“Oh, nonsense, Tom!” His sister turned on her couch, her favorite seat. She tucked a foot beneath her and laughed. “To hear you talk, one would think the boy was dull—or that my art was inscrutably profound.”