To find such significance in a bourgeois villa garden,
and to interpret it with such delicate yet legible certainty, was a kind
of symbolism that was sinister, even diabolical. The delicacy was her
own, but the point of view was another's.
And the word that rose in my mind was not the gross description of
"impure," but the more fundamental qualification--"un-pure."
In silence I turned the sketches over one by one, as a boy hurries
through the pages of an evil book lest he be caught.
"What does Mabel do with them?" I asked presently in a low tone, as I
neared the end. "Does she keep them?"
"She makes notes about them in a book and then destroys them," was the
reply from the end of the room. I heard a sigh of relief. "I'm glad
you've seen them, Bill. I wanted you to--but was afraid to show them.
You understand?"
"I understand," was my reply, though it was not a question intended to
be answered. All I understood really was that Mabel's mind was as sweet
and pure as my sister's, and that she had some good reason for what she
did. She destroyed the sketches, but first made notes! It was an
interpretation of the place she sought. Brother-like, I felt resentment,
though, that Frances should waste her time and talent, when she might be
doing work that she could sell.
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