She was
angry with the heat, with Kami, and with her work, but she was exceedingly
angry with Dick.
She had written to him three times,--each time proposing a fresh treatment of
her Melancolia. Dick had taken no notice of these communications. She had
resolved to write no more. When she returned to England in the autumn--for her
pride's sake she could not return earlier--she would speak to him. She missed
the Sunday afternoon conferences more than she cared to admit. All that Kami
said was, "Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez toujours," and he had been
repeating the wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a cicada,-
-an old gray cicada in a black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge felt
hat.
But Dick had tramped masterfully up and down her little studio north of the
cool green London park, and had said things ten times worse than continuez,
before he snatched the brush out of her hand and showed her where the error
lay. His last letter, Maisie remembered, contained some trivial advice about
not sketching in the sun or drinking water at wayside farmhouses; and he had
said that not once, but three times,--as if he did not know that Maisie could
take care of herself.
But what was he doing, that he could not trouble to write? A murmur of voices
in the road made her lean from the window.
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