Sunday after
Sunday, and his love grew with each visit, he had been compelled to cram his
heart back from between his lips when it prompted him to kiss Maisie several
times and very much indeed. Sunday after Sunday, the head above the heart had
warned him that Maisie was not yet attainable, and that it would be better to
talk as connectedly as possible upon the mysteries of the craft that was all in
all to her. Therefore it was his fate to endure weekly torture in the studio
built out over the clammy back garden of a frail stuffy little villa where
nothing was ever in its right place and nobody every called,--to endure and to
watch Maisie moving to and fro with the teacups. He abhorred tea, but, since it
gave him a little longer time in her presence, he drank it devoutly, and the
red-haired girl sat in an untidy heap and eyed him without speaking. She was
always watching him.
Once, and only once, when she had left the studio, Maisie showed him an album
that held a few poor cuttings from provincial papers,--the briefest of hurried
notes on some of her pictures sent to outlying exhibitions. Dick stooped and
kissed the paint-smudged thumb on the open page. "Oh, my love, my love," he
muttered, "do you value these things? Chuck 'em into the waste-paper basket!"
"Not till I get something better," said Maisie, shutting the book.
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