"Drop in on me at the office some time," he suggested to the
youthful model, in a gracious tone born of absolute
self-satisfaction.
"For luncheon or dinner?" retorted the girl, with smiling audacity.
"You may stay to breakfast also--"
"Oh, come on," drawled Guilder, taking his colleague's elbow.
The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then
celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly.
For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on
neighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew the
dancing figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon the
squeaky revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning at
intervals.
The girl got up from the sofa behind him, went to the model-stand,
and mounted it. For a few moments she was busy adjusting her feet to
the chalk marks and blocks. Finally she took the pose. She always
seemed inclined to be more or less vocal while Drene worked; her
voice, if untrained, was untroubled. Her singing had never bothered
Drene, nor, until the last few days, had he even particularly
noticed her blithe trilling--as a man a field, preoccupied, is
scarcely aware of the wild birds' gay irrelevancy along the way.
He happened to notice it now, and a thought passed through his mind
that the country must be very lovely in the mild spring sunshine.
As he worked, the brief visualization of young grass and the faint
blue of skies, evoked, perhaps, by the girl's careless singing, made
for his dull concentration subtly pleasant environment.
"May I rest?" she asked at length.
"Certainly, if it's necessary."
"I've brought my lunch. It's twelve," she explained.
He glanced at her absently, rolling a morsel of wax; then, with
slight irritation which ended in a shrug, he motioned her to
descend.
After all, girls, like birds, were eternally eating. Except for
that, and incessant preening, existence meant nothing more important
to either species.
He had been busy for a few moments with the group when she said
something to him, and he looked around from his abstraction. She was
holding out toward him a chicken sandwich.
When his mind came back from wool gathering, he curtly declined the
offer, and, as an afterthought, bestowed upon her a wholly
mechanical smile, in recognition of a generosity not welcome.
"Why don't you ever eat luncheon?" she asked.
"Why should I?" he replied, preoccupied.
"It's bad for you not to. Besides, you are growing thin."
"Is that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile?" he asked,
absently.