The women exchanged glances. "You mean the Stations?" the Grey One asked in her quiet way.
"Beth has done a great portrait—enough for any woman—just one like that," Kate Wilkes added, ignoring the other.
"For a time—I thought Beth and Mr. Bedient——" the Grey One ventured.
"No," the other said briefly. "Beth loves her work better than she could love any man. She's the virgin of pictures. Have you seen her since she came back?"
"Yes. As lovely as ever."
"And your 'rage' is on again…. I'm mighty glad about that, Margie.
You were suicidal. Does the great fortune hold true?"
"Oh, yes," the Grey One said, "I'm doing right well. Some of my things are going over the water."
"Poor little Wordling…. I wonder what she has drawn of the great
Driving Good—since that night?… I think it would puzzle even Andrew
Bedient—to make her hark to any soul—but New York's——"
"And you, Kate—this Eve—what has the Year brought?"
"Nonsense, I'm glass; hold oil or acid with equal ease," Kate said, leaning back in the big chair. "I've got a bit of work to do, and a few friends whose fortunes have taken a stunning turn for the better. And I mustn't forget—letters from The Modern when he's away, and talks when he's in New York…. What astonishes me about Andrew Bedient is that he wears. He set a killing pace—for our admiration at first—at least, I thought so—but he hasn't let down an instant. He stands the light of the public square. I granted him a great spirit, but he has more, a great nature to hold it. He can mingle with men without going mad. There's many a prophet who couldn't do that——"