Cut to the heart with remorse, crimson with astonishment, but more deeply wounded in her pride, the child sat immovable on the sofa. "Bella," whispered her little brother, "I don't like Cousin Antony, do you?" She looked at her brother, touched by Gardiner's chivalry. "I fink he's a mean man, Bella." "He's dreadful," she cried, incensed; "he's just too horrid for anything. Anyhow, it was me made Cedersholm write that letter for him, and he didn't _even_ say he was obliged." She ran to the window to watch Antony go, as he always did, on the other side of the road, in order that the children might see him. She hoped for a reconcilement, or a soothing wave of his hand; but Antony did not pass, the window was icy cold, and she turned, discomfited. At her foot--for as Antony had snatched up his coat he had wantonly desecrated a last resting-place--at her foot lay the blackbird. With a murmured word Bella lifted Jetty in both hands to her cheek, and on the cold breast and toneless throat the tears fell--Bella's first real tears. CHAPTER XV Fairfax went into the studio of the first sculptor in the United States with set determination to find work. Cedersholm was cool and absorbed, occupied and preoccupied, overburdened with orders, all of which meant money and fame, but required time. Fairfax was an hour and a half late, and, in spite of the refusal of the manservant, came limping in, and found the master taking a glass of hot milk and a biscuit. Cedersholm reposed on a divan in the corner of a vast studio giving on a less magnificent workroom. The studio was in semi-darkness, and a table near the sofa bore a lamp whose light lit the sculptor's face. To Fairfax, Cedersholm was a lion and wore a mane. In reality, he was a small, insignificant man who might have been a banker. The Southerner introduced himself, and when he was seated by the sculptor's side, began to expose his projects, to dream aloud. He could have talked for ever, but the sum of what he said was that he wanted to enter Cedersholm's studio. "The old Italians took subordinates, sir," he pleaded. "There are classes at Cooper Union," Cedersholm began. But Fairfax, his clear eyes on the artist, said, "But I want to work under a genius." The other, complimented, pushed his milk aside and wiped his lips. "Well, of course, there _is_ plenty of hard work to be done right here in this studio." He spoke cautiously and in a measured tone. "I have workmen with me, but no artists." Fairfax patiently waited. He was as verdant as the young jasmine leaves, as inexperienced and guileless as a child. "I had not thought of taking such an assistant as you represent, Mr. Fairfax." The older man fixed him with clever eyes. "A man must have no end of courage in him, no end of patience, no end of humility, to do what you _say_ you want to do." The young man bowed his head. "Courage, patience, and humility are the attributes of genius, sir."