uld not tell her the truth. He did not wish to romance or to lie to
her. Mrs. Faversham, both sensitive and "fine," respected his reticence.
But she found out about him. They talked of art and letters and life in
general, circling around life in particular, and Fairfax revealed
himself more than he knew, although of his actual existence he told
nothing. He enjoyed the charm of the society of a worldly woman, of a
clever woman. He fed his mind and cultivated his taste, delighted his
eyes with the graceful picture she made, sitting, her head on her hand,
posing for her portrait. Her features were not perfect, but the
ensemble was lovely and he modelled with tenderness and pleasure until
the little bas-relief was magically like her. He was forced to remember
that the study was intended as a present for Cedersholm. He was very
silent and very often wondered why she asked him so constantly to her
house, why she should be so interested in so ungracious a companion.
This morning, in his studio on the Quai, he unwrapped his statue of his
mother. It was a figure sitting in her chair, a book in her hand, as he
had seen her countless times on the veranda of the New Orleans house,
dreaming, her face lifted, her eyes looking into the distance. He went
back to his work with complicated feelings and a heart at which there
was a new ache. He had hardly expected that this statue, left when he
had gone to take up the study of another woman, would charm him as it
did. He began to model. As he worked, he thought the face was singularly
like Bella's--a touch to the head, to the lips, and it was still more
like the young girl. Another year was gone. Bella was a woman now.
Everything, as he modelled, came back to him vividly--all the American
life, with its rush and struggle. So closely did it come, so near to
him, that he threw down his tools to walk up and down in the sunlight
pouring through the big window. He took up his tools and began modelling
again. The statuette was tenderly like his mother. He smoothed the folds
at her waist--and saw under the clay the colour of the violet lawn with
its sprinkling flowers of darker violet. He touched the frills he had
indicated around the throat--and felt the stirring of the Southern
breeze across his hand and smelled the jasmine. He paused after working
for two hours, standing back, resting his lame limb and musing on the
little figure. It grew to suggest all womanhood: Molly, as he had seen
her unde