There was
passion in Joan's voice as she concluded, and her emotion presently found
relief in tears. She only uttered thoughts long in her mind, without for an
instant guessing the grim truth or suspecting what his work was to the man;
yet, things being as they were, she felt some real passing pain to find him
devote so much thought to it. Before the storm his painting had sunk to
insignificance, since then it began to grow into a great matter again; and
Joan was honestly jealous of the attention the artist bestowed upon it now.
If she had dared, she would have asked him to destroy it; but something
told her he would refuse. No fear for the future was mingled with this
emotion. Only his mighty interest in the work annoyed her. It was a natural
petty jealousy; and when John Barron laughed at her and kissed her tears
away, she laughed too and felt a little ashamed, though none the less glad
that she had spoken.
But while he flung jests at her anger, Barron felt secretly surprised to
note the strides his Awdrey's mind was making. Much worth consideration
appeared in her sudden attack upon the picture. She had evidently been
really reflecting, with coherence and lucidity. That astonished him. But
still he answered with a laugh.
"Jealous, Joan! Jealous of yourself--of the poor painted thing which has
risen from the contents of small tubes smeared over a bit of canvas! My
funny little dear delight! Will you always amuse me, I wonder? I hope you
will.
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