Kirk's reception of the news relieved her.
"Of course," he said. "He couldn't do anything else. He knew nothing of
me except that I was a kind of man with whom he was quite out of
sympathy. He mistrusted all artists, I expect, in a bunch. And, anyway,
an artist is pretty sure to be a bad man of business. He would know
that. And--and, well, what I mean is, it strikes me as a very sensible
arrangement. Why are we stopping here?"
The car had drawn up before a large house on the upper avenue, one of
those houses which advertise affluence with as little reticence as a
fat diamond solitaire.
"We live here," said Ruth, laughing.
Kirk drew a long breath.
"Do we? By George!" he exclaimed. "I see it's going to take me quite a
while to get used to this state of things."
A thought struck him.
"How about the studio? Have you got rid of it?"
"Of course not. The idea! After the perfect times we had there! We're
going to keep it on as an annex. Every now and then, when we are tired
of being rich, we'll creep off there and boil eggs over the gas-stove
and pretend we are just ordinary persons again."
"And oftener than every now and then this particular plutocrat is going
to creep off there and try to teach himself to paint pictures."
Ruth nodded.
"Yes, I think you ought to have a hobby. It's good for you.
Pages:
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183