Part 18 (1/2)

He isn't here. Come in, dear; I am sure he will be pleased to see you--we will wait.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

_My_ husband hates to be disturbed in his studio. He says he can never work again all day.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Artists are so different; Mr. Sylvester is more highly strung than Rembrandt, I sometimes think. Rembrandt likes to see his friends in his studio. I wonder where he has gone.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Gone to have a drink, I daresay.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Adelaide!

MRS. SYLVESTER.

He does drink, doesn't he--when he's thirsty anyhow? And artists are so often thirsty. Charles is often thirsty. He says it is a characteristic feature of the artistic temperament. Ah! my dear.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Why that sigh?

MRS. SYLVESTER (_sighing again_).

Heigh ho!

MRS. TEMPENNY (_affectionately_).

Adelaide?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Eugenia!

(_They touch each other's hands sympathetically_.)

MRS. TEMPENNY.

Aren't you happy, Adelaide?

MRS. SYLVESTER.

I am married to an artist, Euna! I wouldn't say as much to anybody else, but we were girls at school together.

MRS. TEMPENNY.

But, dear Addie, everybody knows you are married to an artist.