Part 73 (1/2)
”Tell me--what is it?” she asked, almost timidly.
”Tell _you_?” He rose, stood by the window looking out, then turned to her:
”What can _I_ tell you?” he added with a short laugh. ”What have I to say to a girl who can do--_these_--after two years abroad?”
Sheer happiness kept her silent. She had not dared hope for such approval. Even now she dared not permit herself to accept it.
”I have so much to say,” she ventured, ”and such an appalling amount of work before I can learn to say it----”
”Your work is--stunning!” he said bluntly.
”You don't think so!” she exclaimed incredulously.
”Indeed I do! Look at what you have done in two years. Yes, grant all your apt.i.tude and talents, just look what you've _accomplished_ and where you _are_! Look at you yourself, too--what a stunning, bewildering sort of girl you've developed into!”
”Jim Neeland!”
”Certainly, Jim Neeland, of Neeland's Mills, who has had years more study than you have, more years of advantage, and who now is an ill.u.s.trator without anything in particular to distinguish him from the several thousand other American ill.u.s.trators----”
”Jim! Your work is charming!”
”How do _you_ know?”
”Because I have everything you ever did! I sent for the magazines and cut them out; and they are in my sc.r.a.pbook----”
She hesitated, breathless, smiling back at him out of her beautiful golden-grey eyes as though challenging him to doubt her loyalty or her belief in him.
It was rather curious, too, for the girl was unusually intelligent and discriminating; and Neeland's work was very, very commonplace.
His face had become rather sober, but the smile still lurked on his lips.
”Rue,” he said, ”you are wonderfully kind. But I'm afraid I know about my work. I can draw pretty well, according to school standards; and I approach pretty nearly the same standards in painting. Probably that is why I became an instructor at the Art League. But, so far, I haven't done anything better than what is called 'acceptable.'”
”I don't agree with you,” she said warmly.
”It's very kind of you not to.” He laughed and walked to the window again, and stood there looking out across the sunny garden. ”Of course,” he added over his shoulder, ”I expect to get along all right.
Mediocrity has the best of chances, you know.”
”You are _not_ mediocre!”
”No, I don't think I am. But my work is. And, do you know,” he continued thoughtfully, ”that is very often the case with a man who is better equipped to act than to tell with pen or pencil how others act.
I'm beginning to be afraid that I'm that sort, because I'm afraid that I get more enjoyment out of doing things than in explaining with pencil and paint how they are done.”
But Rue Carew, seated on the arm of her chair, slowly shook her head:
”I don't think that those are the only alternatives; do you?”
”What other is there?”