After a while Hugh was calm and sat at her feet, smoking. But he was
unnaturally silent, and his eyes brooded upon her haggardly.
It was several days before Hugh regained his old vigor and buoyancy;
then it came to life like an Antaeus flung down to mother earth. His
hour of doubt, of self-distrust, of compunction, was whirled away
like an uprooted tree on the flood of his happiness. He flung reason
and caution to the four winds; he dared Bella or Pete to betray him,
he played his heroic part with boisterous energy; his tongue wagged
like a tipsy troubadour's. What an empty canvas, a palette piled with
rainbow tints, a fistful of clean brushes would be to an artist long
starved for his tools, such was Sylvie's mind to Hugh. She was
darkness for him to scrawl upon with light; she was the romantic ear
to his romantic tongue; she was the poet reader for his gorgeous
imagery. He had not only the happiness of the successful lover, but
even more, the happiness of the successful creator. What he was
creating was the Hugh that might have been.
With Sylvie clinging to his hand, he now went out singing--the three
of them together, great Hugh and happy artist Hugh all but welded
into one man for her and for her love.
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