As a matter of fact for once it was conceivable that Mamie knew what she was talking about, for, Grover reflected, if anybody had ever kept an idealistic banner aloft under terrific fire, it was the lanky self-made soprano who was,—there was no doubt of it,—"getting to sing in opera."
Hellgren seemed almost not to recognize him, but when Mamie greeted Grover by name, recognition dawned, and the sculptor pumped his arm with grateful pleasure. Grover was sorry for Hellgren in advance, sorry for him in principle, and at the same time half envious of such simple guilelessness. Mamie had twisted herself into an attitude which was meant to express embarrassment at being discovered in a situation which she hoped would be construed as clandestine. And Grover's compassion for Hellgren spread out and included in its embrace the would-be guileful Mamie,—poor Mamie who had to go to such lengths for a thrill which wasn't even a true one. And at heart so desperately harmless.
"I only saw the announcement of your show this morning," Grover explained. "I've wanted for a long while to see some of your things." It was the first shot in his campaign of perfidy. The second cost him an even sharper qualm, and anybody but Hellgren and Mamie, he felt sure, would have twigged. "This small model, of course, gives one a very inadequate idea; how far have you progressed on the finished piece?"
