"Oh, yes," she replied, still looking up. "I see them every day from my
windows. They always come home about five o'clock. Where do they live?"
"I don't know. Probably some Italian raises them for the market. They
were here long before I came, and I've been here four years."
"In that same gloomy room? Why didn't you take mine when it was vacant?"
"It isn't gloomy. That's the best light for painting."
"Oh, is it? I don't know anything about painting. I'd like to see your
pictures sometime. You have such a lot in there. Don't they get dusty,
piled up against the wall like that?"
"Not very. I'd be glad to show them to you. Is your name really Eden
Bower? I've seen your letters on the table."
"Well, it's the name I'm going to sing under. My father's name is Bowers,
but my friend Mr. Jones, a Chicago newspaper man who writes about music,
told me to drop the 's.' He's crazy about my voice."
Miss Bower didn't usually tell the whole story,--about anything. Her
first name, when she lived in Huntington, Illinois, was Edna, but Mr.
Jones had persuaded her to change it to one which he felt would be worthy
of her future. She was quick to take suggestions, though she told him she
"didn't see what was the matter with 'Edna.'"
She explained to Hedger that she was going to Paris to study. She was
waiting in New York for Chicago friends who were to take her over, but
who had been detained. "Did you study in Paris?" she asked.
"No, I've never been in Paris. But I was in the south of France all last
summer, studying with C----. He's the biggest man among the moderns,--at
least I think so."
Miss Bower sat down and made room for him on the bench. "Do tell me about
it. I expected to be there by this time, and I can't wait to find out
what it's like."
Hedger began to relate how he had seen some of this Frenchman's work in
an exhibition, and deciding at once that this was the man for him, he had
taken a boat for Marseilles the next week, going over steerage. He
proceeded at once to the little town on the coast where his painter
lived, and presented himself. The man never took pupils, but because
Hedger had come so far, he let him stay. Hedger lived at the master's
house and every day they went out together to paint, sometimes on the
blazing rocks down by the sea. They wrapped themselves in light woollen
blankets and didn't feel the heat. Being there and working with C---- was
being in Paradise, Hedger concluded; he learned more in three months than
in all his life before.
Eden Bower laughed. "You're a funny fellow. Didn't you do anything but
work? Are the women very beautiful? Did you have awfully good things to
eat and drink?"
Hedger said some of the women were fine looking, especially one girl who
went about selling fish and lobsters. About the food there was nothing
remarkable,--except the ripe figs, he liked those. They drank sour wine,
and used goat-butter, which was strong and full of hair, as it was
churned in a goat skin.
"But don't they have parties or banquets? Aren't there any fine hotels
down there?"
"Yes, but they are all closed in summer, and the country people are poor.
It's a beautiful country, though."
"How, beautiful?" she persisted.
"If you want to go in, I'll show you some sketches, and you'll see."
Miss Bower rose. "All right. I won't go to my fencing lesson this
morning. Do you fence? Here comes your dog. You can't move but he's after
you. He always makes a face at me when I meet him in the hall, and shows
his nasty little teeth as if he wanted to bite me."
In the studio Hedger got out his sketches, but to Miss Bower, whose
favourite pictures were Christ Before Pilate and a redhaired Magdalen of
Henner, these landscapes were not at all beautiful, and they gave her no
idea of any country whatsoever. She was careful not to commit herself,
however. Her vocal teacher had already convinced her that she had a great
deal to learn about many things.
"Why don't we go out to lunch somewhere?" Hedger asked, and began to dust
his fingers with a handkerchief--which he got out of sight as swiftly as
possible.
"All right, the Brevoort," she said carelessly. "I think that's a good
place, and they have good wine. I don't care for cocktails."
Hedger felt his chin uneasily. "I'm afraid I haven't shaved this morning.
If you could wait for me in the Square? It won't take me ten minutes."
Left alone, he found a clean collar and handkerchief, brushed his coat
and blacked his shoes, and last of all dug up ten dollars from the bottom
of an old copper kettle he had brought from Spain. His winter hat was of
such a complexion that the Brevoort hall boy winked at the porter as he
took it and placed it on the rack in a row of fresh straw ones.