“To speak of studio lighting as artificial and unworthy is silly.  It is pretty hard to find anything really artificial in the world, indoors, or out, or even in the glare of the footlights.  I think the main idea is that a man should prefer doing what the public calls his work, to any other form of recreation—­should use enough reason—­not too much—­enough inspiration—­but watching himself at every brush stroke; and finally should feel physically unfettered—­that is, have the a b c, the drudgery, the artisan’s part of the work at his finger tips.  Then, if he does what makes him happy, whether in a spirit of realism or romanticism, he can safely leave the rest to Fate.”

He looked at her, curiously for a moment, then a smile wholly involuntary broke over his face: 

“Lord!  What a lecture!  And you listened to all that nonsense like an angel!”

The dreamy absorption died out in her eyes; she clasped her hands on her knee, looked down, then up at him almost irritably: 

“Please go on, Mr. Neville.”

“Not much.  I’ve a few stunts to execute aloft there—­”

He contemplated her in amused silence, which became more serious: 

“You have talent, Miss West.  Artistic talent is not unusual among Americans, but patience is.  That is one reason why talent accomplishes so little in this country.”

“Isn’t another reason that patience is too expensive to be indulged in by talent?”

He laughed:  “That is perfectly true.  The majority of us have to make a living before we know how.”

“Did you have to do that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You were fortunate?”

“Yes.  I was—­perhaps....  I’m not sure.”

She touched the lump of green wax gravely, absently.  He remained looking at her, busy with his own reflections.

“Would you like to have a chance to study?” he asked.

“Study?  What?”

“Sculpture—­any old thing!  Would you like to try?

“What chance have I for such expensive amusements as study?” she laughed.

“I’ll be responsible for you.”

“You?”—­in blank surprise.

“I’ll attend to the material part of it, if you like.  I’ll see that you can afford the—­patience.”

“Mr. Neville, I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” he asked, lazily humorous.

“Do you mean—­that you offer me—­an opportunity—­”

“Yes; an opportunity to exercise patience.  It’s an offer, Miss West.  But I’m perfectly certain you won’t take it.”

For a long while she sat, her cheek resting on one palm, looking fixedly into space.  Then she stirred, glanced up, blushed vividly, sprang to her feet and crossed to where he sat.

“I’ve been considering your offer,” she said, striving to speak without effort.

“I’ll bet you won’t accept it!”

“You win your wager, Mr. Neville.”