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"It's a long story," returned Maurice, lighting a fresh cigar. "Look here, Uncle Jen, I went to dress at half-past six; you did also. When we left the devil-stick was in the room on the wall. Now we are here again at half-past eight, the devil-stick is gone. In these two hours Dido has had time to cross the lawn yonder and steal it." Patricia flung the sewing aside and threw her arms about her friend in a tempest of contrition. "I didn't mean to be horrid," she cried. "You know I wouldn't really be so selfish—if I thought you wanted it. But we have been so happy together here, and I wanted it to go onto the end, just like a beautiful story that ends happily. I'm sorry I seemed mean." "I got my criticism! And he said the work was good! Now I can write to Bruce," and her voice rang with a thrilling note of joy that carried Patricia with her..
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"Do you know," interrupted Patricia, suddenly alert again, "I don't believe I'll ever amount to a row of pins as an artist? I always forget the work and think only of the people and the fun. I wonder if I can't brace up and do something worth while. I'll start in tomorrow—see if I don't." "Sure thing," supplemented Griffin genially. "I'm in it now, and if you'd put it off, I'd been in Kalamazoo or Madagascar, and missed it all." Judith was silent for the most part, but her eyes glowed like live coals and she kept tossing her pale, straight mane in the way she had when pleasantly excited. Elinor laid down her brushes and turned in her chair. Her face lighted as she saw the rough, vigorous outlines of Patricia's latest effort..
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