From a Bench in Our Square | Page 9

bear to
think of his having to do servant's work. And I told him so yesterday."
"Did you look like that while you were telling him?"
"Like what? I suppose so."
"And what did he do?"
"Do? He didn't do anything."
"Then," pronounced the Bonnie Lassie, "he's a stick of
wood--hardwood--with a knot-hole for a heart."
"He isn't! Well, perhaps he is. He was very horrid at the last."
"About what?"
"About taking money."
"I'm a prophetess! And you're a patroness. Born in us, I suppose. You
did try to give him money."
"Just to loan it. Enough so that he could go away to study and paint. He
wouldn't even let me do that; so I--I--I offered to buy the picture of me,
and he said--he said--Cecily, do you think he's sometimes a little queer
in his head?"
"Not in the head, necessarily. What did he say?"
"He said he'd bought it himself at the highest price ever paid. And he
said it so obstinately that I saw it was no use, so I just told him that I
hoped I'd see him when I came back--"

"Back from where? Are you going away?"
"Yes; didn't I tell you? On a three months' cruise."
"Had you told him that?"
"Of course. That's when I tried to get him to take the money. Cecily--"
The girl's voice shook a little. "You'll tell him, won't you, that he must
keep on painting?"
"Why? Doesn't he intend to?"
"He said he'd painted himself out and he didn't think he'd ever look at
color again."
"He will," said the Bonnie Lassie wisely and comfortably. "Grief is just
as driving a taskmaster as lo--as other emotions."
"Grief!" The girl's color ebbed. "Cecily! You don't think I've hurt him?"
The Bonnie Lassie caught her in a sudden hug.
"Bobbie, do you know what I'd do in your place?"
"No. What?"
"I'd go right--straight--back to Julien Tenney's studio." She paused
impressively.
"Yes?" said the other faintly.
"And I'd walk right--straight--up to Julien Tenney--" Another pause,
even more impressive.
"I d-d-don't think I'd--he'd--"
"And I'd say to him: 'Julien, will you marry me?' Like that."
"Oh!" said Bobbie in outraged amazement.

"And maybe--" continued the Bonnie Lassie judicially: "maybe I'd kiss
him. Yes. I think I would."
Suddenly all the bright softness of Bobbie's large eyes dissolved in
tears. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she sobbed.
"You won't be ashamed of yourself," prophesied the other, "if you do
just as I say, quickly and naturally."
"Oh, naturally," retorted the girl in an indignant whimper. "I suppose
you think that's natural. Anyway, he probably doesn't care about me at
all that way."
"Roberta," said the sculptress sternly, "did you see his portrait of you?"
"Y-y-yes."
"And you have the presumption to say that he doesn't care? Why, that
picture doesn't simply tell his secret. It yells it!"
"I don't care," said the hard-pressed Bobbie. "It hasn't yelled it to me.
Nobody's yelled it to me. And I c-c-can't ask a m-m-man to--to--"
"Perhaps you can't," allowed her adviser magnanimously. "On second
thought, it won't be necessary. You just go back--after powdering your
nose a little--and say that you've come to see the picture once more, or
that it's a fine day, or that competition is the life of trade, or that--oh,
anything! And, if he doesn't do the rest, I'll kill and eat him."
"But, Cecily--"
"You would be a patroness of Art. Now I've given you something real
to patronize. Don't you dare fail me." Suddenly the speaker gave herself
over to an access of mirth. "Heaven help that young man when he
comes to own up."
"Own up to what?"
"Never mind."

Having consumed a vain and repetitious half-hour in variations upon
her query, Bobbie gave it up and decided to find out for herself. It was
curiosity and curiosity alone (so she assured herself) that impelled her
to return for the last time (she assured herself of that, also) to the attic.
A voice raised in vehement protest, echoing through the open door of
the studio, checked her on the landing below as she mounted.
"And you're actually going to let thirty-five thousand a year slip
through your fingers, just to pursue a fad?"
To which Julien's equable accents replied:
"That's it, Merrill. I'm going to paint."
The unseen Merrill left a blessing (of a sort) behind, slammed the door
upon it, and materialized to the vision of the girl on the landing as an
energetic and spruce-looking man of forty-odd, with a harassed
expression. At need, Miss Holland could summon considerable
decisiveness to her aid.
"Would you think me inexcusably rude," she said softly, "if I asked
who you are?"
The descending man snatched off his hat, stared, seemed on the point
of whistling, then,