"She's supposed to be painting Indians."
"Indians!" To the amazement of the other man Blair suddenly leaned
forward, his eyes agleam with interest.
"But I didn't know there were any around here."
"There aren't."
"Then how - ?"
"Makes 'em up out of her head, I guess. I never heard that she had even
a model."
"But - but what I want to know is why she comes here at all?" The
situation seemed to Blair to offer possibilities, yet he was thoroughly
puzzled. "I met a fellow on the train who does that sort of thing, but
he always goes to the desert to paint, - at least he said he did."
"Yes, they do mostly. Probably he meant Taos, - whole nest of artists at
Taos."
"Well, but why in thunder then - ?"
The clerk smiled skeptically.
"Why, you see, it's something like this. Miss Hastings' bent on being an
illustrator, pays better than teaching, I suppose, or - well, at any
rate, that's what she's aiming for, - and she has an idea that if she
can only get a series of pictures, - several of them on the same
subject, you understand, - accepted by one of those Eastern magazines,
she can soon work in with some big publisher and get an order. She told
us all about it one night last winter when she was over."
"But in heaven's name, why Indians?" persisted Blair.
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