"Good thing!" he ejaculated. "Stimulates the gray matter." His face went awry, however, when she mentioned Julie's theory and practice. "So it's the tea-drinking Mrs. Joyce-Reeves our mighty painter thinks most important," he broke out acidly, after violent bottling of comment more pungent. "Fine! What insight! What originality!" Jean's eyes snapped loyally. "Don't be disagreeable," she retorted. "You know Craig doesn't think anything of the kind." They separated with scant courtesy, but she had not quitted the park before MacGregor's tall figure again towered over her. "Enlighten the brute a little further," he said with elaborate meekness. "What is to become of your work? Richter says you haven't darkened his door since your marriage." "Four whole weeks!" "Oh, jeer away," he grumbled. "Honeymoon or not, it's too long." "I must think of Craig's interests first." MacGregor lifted his hat. "Your father also dabbled in clay--and matrimony, I believe," he said, and left her definitely to herself. She admitted the justice of his reminder when her cheek cooled, and, turning into a cross-town street, set a straight course for Richter's. The swathed model of a colossal group called "Agriculture," which he had in hand for a Western exposition, hid the sculptor as she pushed open the door of the big studio, and when she finally came upon the little man it was to discover Mrs. Joyce-Reeves beside him in close examination of an uncovered bit of foreground where a child tumbled in joyous, intimate communion with the soil. They broke out laughing at sight of Jean. "I told you I should ask Richter," declared the old lady, briskly. "His answer was to show me this." Jean flushed at this indirect praise from the master. "Mr. Richter let me have a hand in it," she said. "A hand! He told me he should have had to leave the figure out altogether if you had not experimented with the janitor's baby." The sculptor was now blushing, too. "He did not tell me," Jean laughed. "Why didn't you?" demanded Mrs. Joyce-Reeves, abruptly. "Why didn't you encourage the girl?" "I think praise should be handled gingerly," he explained. "Is it such moral dynamite? I don't believe it." She beamed her approval of Jean's physical endowments as well, lingering in particular upon her eyes. Suddenly she gave a little cluck of surprise, whipped out a handkerchief, and laid it unceremoniously across the girl's lower face. "Do you know Malcolm MacGregor?" she demanded. "Yes? Then I'm the owner of your portrait. It's called 'The Lattice.' Atwood's wife, MacGregor's inspiration, Richter's collaborator--my dear, you are very wonderful. Shall I take you home? I've promised your husband a sitting."