Part 7 (1/2)
”Yes, really! You were just at the right angle for it, and you did look so hopeful!”
”You can't make me believe you played such a shabby trick upon me, Mary Downing!”
”Shabby! If you knew how good-looking you were at a three-eighths'
angle you would be grateful to me! You did have such an inspired look for a little while,--before you got disgusted, and began to wash out.”
”Jane Rhoades did an awfully pretty thing--a white bird with a boy running after it. But I felt perfectly certain that the little wretch had a gun in his other hand!”
”What a fiery head you gave your angel, Mattie Stiles! He looked like Loge in _Rheingold!_”
”I don't care,” said Mattie, in a tone of voice that showed that she did care very much indeed. ”I do like red hair, and we haven't had a chance to paint any all winter.”
”Red hair wouldn't make t.i.tians of us,” sighed Miss Isabella Ricker, who was of a despondent temperament.
”It wouldn't be any hindrance, anyhow!” Mattie insisted.
Meanwhile the half-hour was drawing to a close. A general air of rough order had descended upon the studio. The girls were sitting or standing about in groups, their remarks getting more disjointed and irrelevant as the nervousness of antic.i.p.ation grew upon them. Madge and Eleanor had found a seat on the steps of the platform. The former was making a pencil sketch of Miss Isabella Ricker, who had abandoned herself to dejection in a remote corner of the room. Madge looked up suddenly, and found that Eleanor was watching her work.
”Your thing is very interesting,” she remarked, in a reserved tone, which, nevertheless, sent the colour mounting slowly up her friend's sensitive cheek. They both understood that no more commendatory adjective than ”interesting” was to be found in the art-student's vocabulary.
”You're partial, Madge.”
”Not a bit of it. But I know an interesting thing when I see it. If you win the prize,” she asked abruptly, ”what shall you do with the money?”
”If you go to the moon next week, what shall you do with the green cheese?” Eleanor retorted, with an unprecedented outburst of sarcasm.
”I think you might answer my question,” said Madge; and at that instant the door opened and a hush fell upon the room.
The suspense was not painfully prolonged. The Curator of the Art Museum, who had been a.s.sociated with Mrs. Jacques and Mr. Salome as judge, stepped upon the platform, from which Madge and Eleanor had precipitately retreated, and made the following announcement:
”We have, on the whole,” he said, ”been very well pleased with the work we have had to consider. In fact, several of the sketches were better than anything we had looked for. Nevertheless our decision was not a difficult one, and our choice is unanimous. The prize which Mrs.
Jacques has had the originality and the generosity to offer has been awarded to Mary Eleanor Merritt.”
”And now will you answer my question?”
Madge and Eleanor were walking home together through the light snow which had just begun to fall. They had been curiously shy of speaking, and, before the silence was broken, a pretty wreath of snow had formed itself about the rim of each of their black felt hats, while little ribbons of it were decorating the folds of their garments.
”What are you going to do with your green cheese?”
”I shall go to Paris next autumn,” said Eleanor, tightly clasping the check which she held inside her m.u.f.f.
”That's what I thought,” said Madge; and if her eyes grew a trifle red and moist it was perhaps natural enough, since the snow was flying straight into them.
CHAPTER II
THE MINIATURE