He isn"t here. Come in, dear; I am sure he will be pleased to see you--we will wait.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
_My_ husband hates to be disturbed in his studio. He says he can never work again all day.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Artists are so different; Mr. Sylvester is more highly strung than Rembrandt, I sometimes think. Rembrandt likes to see his friends in his studio. I wonder where he has gone.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Gone to have a drink, I daresay.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Adelaide!
MRS. SYLVESTER.
He does drink, doesn"t he--when he"s thirsty anyhow? And artists are so often thirsty. Charles is often thirsty. He says it is a characteristic feature of the artistic temperament. Ah! my dear.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Why that sigh?
MRS. SYLVESTER (_sighing again_).
Heigh ho!
MRS. TEMPENNY (_affectionately_).
Adelaide?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Eugenia!
(_They touch each other"s hands sympathetically_.)
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Aren"t you happy, Adelaide?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I am married to an artist, Euna! I wouldn"t say as much to anybody else, but we were girls at school together.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
But, dear Addie, everybody knows you are married to an artist.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I mean I would not say to anybody else that I am not entirely happy.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_enthusiastically_).
Do tell me all about it.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I am jealous.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Of whom?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Oh no one--of everybody; of my husband"s past, which I know--of his life to-day, which is too circ.u.mspect to be sincere.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_with misgiving_).
But--but Rembrandt"s life is also circ.u.mspect.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Poor child.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
You pity me?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Horribly. To be married to a painter--what a fate! To have a husband who is shut up alone all day with a creature who--who wears--
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Rembrandt"s models _do_--.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Wear--?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Plenty!