Part 12 (1/2)
”Perhaps you may turn out stuff yourself some day.”
She scarcely knew how to take the word ”stuff.” Vaguely she surmised it to be professional vernacular.
She admitted shyly that she cared for nothing so much as drawing, that she longed for instruction, but that such a dream was hopeless.
At first he did not comprehend that poverty barred the way to her; he urged her to cultivate her talent, bestowed advice concerning the Art League, boarding houses, studios, ways, means, and ends, until she felt obliged to tell him how far beyond her means such magic splendours lay.
He remained silent, sorry for her, thinking also that the chances were against her having any particular talent, consoling a heart that was unusually sympathetic and tender with the conclusion that this girl would be happier here in Brookhollow than scratching around the purlieus of New York to make both ends meet.
”It's a tough deal,” he remarked abruptly. ”--I mean this art stuff.
You work like the d.i.c.kens and kick your heels in ante-rooms. If they take your stuff they send you back to alter it or redraw it. _I_ don't know how anybody makes a living at it--in the beginning.”
”Don't _you_?”
”I? No.” He reddened; but she could not notice it in the moonlight.
”No,” he repeated; ”I have an allowance from my father. I'm new at it yet.”
”Couldn't a man--a girl--support herself by drawing pictures for magazines?” she inquired tremulously.
”Oh, well, of course there are some who have arrived--and they manage to get on. Some even make wads, you know.”
”W-wads?” she repeated, mystified.
”I mean a lot of money. There's that girl on the _Star_, Jean Throssel, who makes all kinds of wealth, they say, out of her spidery, filmy girls in ringlets and cheesecloth dinner gowns.”
”Oh!”
”Yes, Jean Throssel, and that Waythorne girl, Belinda Waythorne, you know--does all that stuff for _The Looking Gla.s.s_--futurist graft, no mouths on her people--she makes _hers_, I understand.”
It was rather difficult for Rue to follow him amid the vernacular mazes.
”Then, of course,” he continued, ”men like Alexander Fairless and Philip Lightwood who imitates him, make fortunes out of their drawing.
I could name a dozen, perhaps. But the rest--hard sledding, Miss Carew!”
”Is it _very_ hard?”
”Well, I don't know what on earth I'd do if dad didn't back me as his fancy.”
”A father ought to, if he can afford it.”
”Oh, I'll pay my way some day. It's in me. I feel it; I know it. I'll make plenty of money,” he a.s.sured her confidently.
”I'm sure you will.”
”Thank you,” he smiled. ”My friends tell me I've got it in me. I have one friend in particular--the Princess Mistchenka--who has all kinds of confidence in my future. When I'm blue she bolsters me up. She's quite wonderful. I owe her a lot for asking me to her Sunday nights and for giving me her friends.h.i.+p.”
”A--a princess?” whispered the girl, who had drawn pictures of thousands but was a little startled to realise that such fabled creatures really exist.