Титан

Airs from the Orient

           Hedidnotcaretoriflethem,willy-nilly;butshouldtheirtemperamentsortastesinclinetheminhisdirection,theywouldnotsuffervastlyintheirlivesbecauseofhim.Thefactwas,themanwasessentiallygenerouswherewomenwereconcerned.

           "Howniceofyou!"hecommented,smiling."Ilikethat."Andthen,seeinganote-bookandpencilbesideher,heasked,"Whatareyoudoing?"

           "Justsketching."

           "Letmesee?"

           "It’snothingmuch,"shereplied,deprecatingly."Idon’tdrawverywell."

           "Giftedgirl!"hereplied,pickingitup."Paints,draws,carvesonwood,plays,sings,acts."

           "Allratherbadly,"shesighed,turningherheadlanguidlyandlookingaway.Inhersketch-bookshehadputallofherbestdrawings;thereweresketchesofnudewomen,dancers,torsos,bitsofrunningfigures,sad,heavy,sensuousheadsandnecksofsleepinggirls,chinsup,eyelidsdown,studiesofherbrothersandsister,andofherfatherandmother.

           "Delightful!"exclaimedCowperwood,keenlyalivetoanewtreasure.Goodheavens,wherehadbeenhiseyesallthiswhile?Herewasajewellyingathisdoorstepinnocent,untarnishedarealjewel.Thesedrawingssuggestedafireofperception,smolderingandsomber,whichthrilledhim.

           "Thesearebeautifultome,Stephanie,"hesaid,simply,astrange,uncertainfeelingofrealaffectioncreepingoverhim.Theman’sgreatestlovewasforart.Itwashypnotictohim.

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