I did
see some of them in Europe, but of course I should love to see them
again."
"I wish you would, my dear; perhaps"--a little fearfully--"they'd
make you feel like getting to work yourself. Ernestine,"--gathering
courage--"it's awful for you to let your work go this way. Every one
says so. I was talking to Ryan the other day--you know who he is? He
asked all about you, and if you were doing anything now, and when I told
him I was afraid not he fairly flew into a rage, said that was just the
way--the people who might be great didn't seem to have sense enough to
care to be."
That brought the quick colour. "Perhaps Mr. Ryan does not understand
everything in life," she said, coolly.
"Now, Ernestine--he was lovely about you. Would he have shown any feeling
at all if he didn't care a great deal for your work? Does any one fly
into a rage at _my_ not painting? He said you were _one_ American woman
who was an artist instead of 'a woman who paints.' It seems he saw the
Salon picture. Oh, he said beautiful things about you.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344