was really working, she would not actually send him away, but let him
sit in the deep chair by the fire and wait till she was through, and
ready for talk and play. As much almost as he loved her, he hated her
ambitions, if only because they interfered with him, and because he
found it impossible to take them seriously. Her work seemed surprisingly
good to him--not surprisingly good for a genuine sculptor who exhibited
in salons, but for a girl of his own class whom he had always known. In
this estimate he did not do Barbara justice. She had a fine natural
talent and she had been well trained. People who knew what they were
talking about, shock-headed young fellows with neighboring studios,
prophesied great things for her, partly because she was beautiful, and
partly because her work, as far as she had gone in it, was really good.
What she lacked, they said, was inspiration, experience, and knowledge
of life. When these things came to her in due time, her technique would
be quite equal to expressing them.

Wilmot's dream of being much in Barbara's studio proved negotiable only
as a dream. Barbara began a fountain for her father's garden at
Clovelly, and during the modelling of the central figure the studio was
no place for a modest young man. He had one glimpse through the
half-open door of a girl with very red hair and very white skin, and he
turned and beat a decided retreat, blushing furiously. He did not repeat
his visit to her studio until Barbara assured him that the nymph had put
on her clothes and gone away. Then, much to his disgust, he found there
a young fellow named Scupper, who smoked a vile pipe and had dirty
finger-nails and was allowed to make himself at home because he had
recently exhibited a portrait bust that everybody was praising (even
Wilmot) and because he had volunteered during a delightful contemplation
of Barbara's face to do her portrait and tell her all that he had
learned from his great master, Rodin.