“Facility? Facility is dangerous—big things aren’t done in a few minutes—Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she said to herself in the best manner of her instructor in Indianapolis. One thing that puzzled her was the way the instructors left the students alone. They were there to teach, why didn’t they do it? Instead, they passed around about twice a week and looked at the drawings and said something like “You’re getting on all right—just keep it up,” or now and then really gave a criticism, but more often just looked and passed on to the next without a word in the most tantalizing manner possible. The reticence of the instructors was amply balanced by the loquacity of the students. They looked at each other’s work and criticized or praised in the frankest manner possible, and seemingly without a hint of jealousy or self-consciousness. It was time to rest. The model left the throne and immediately the students all left their drawing-boards to talk. Dorothy Winslow leaned over Ruth’s shoulder. “That’s really awfully nice, the way you’ve got that line,—” she pointed with one long, slim charcoal-smudged finger. “Do you think so? Thank you,” said Ruth. “Krakowski’s lovely to work from, anyway. I’d love to paint him. He’s got such an interesting head.” “Yes—it distracted me from my work a little,” admitted Ruth. “Why, you’ve almost got a finished sketch,” she continued, looking at Dorothy’s board. “I always work fast,” admitted Dorothy, “but I’ll do it all over again a dozen times before the week is finished.” “I wonder how she happened to take up art,” said Ruth, nodding toward the broad back of the fat lady with the dyed hair. “Oh, she’s—she’s just one of the perpetual students—they say she’s been coming here for ten years—didn’t they have any perpetual students where you came from? But perhaps this is your first year?” “No, I studied a year in the Indianapolis Art School and we didn’t have any perpetual art students. Is the one with grey hair a perpetual student, too?” “Yes; we had one, a man too, in San Francisco where I came from.” “Why do they do it? Isn’t it rather pitiful, or are they rich women with a fad?” “No, indeed, they’re not rich. I never heard of a perpetual student who was rich. Why, Camille De Muth, the fat one, sometimes has to pose in the portrait class to earn money to pay for her life.” “How does she live?” asked Ruth. “Dear Lord, as well ask me why is an art student as how does one live—how do any of us live, except of course the lucky ones with an allowance from home?” All the time she was talking, Dorothy Winslow was moving her hands, defying all the laws of physiology by bending her long fingers back over the tops of them, and by throwing one white thumb out of joint. “But you haven’t told me why they do it—why they keep on studying year after year. Don’t they try to make any use of what they’ve learned?”