She was fidgeting with a sheet of drawing paper.
"Careful you don't bend that," cautioned Linda. Then she looked
at John Gilman. He BELIEVED what he was saying; he was happy
again. Linda evolved the best smile she could.
"How stupid of us not to have guessed!" she said.
Closing the door behind them, Linda leaned against it and looked
up through the skylight at the creep blue of the night, the
low-hung stars. How long she stood there she did not know.
Presently she went to her chair, picked up her pencil, and slowly
began to draw. At first she scarcely realized what she was
doing, then she became absorbed in her work. Then she reached
for her color box and brushes, and shortly afterward tacked
against the wall an extremely clever drawing of a greatly
enlarged wasp. Skillfully she had sketched a face that was
recognizable round the big insect eyes. She had surmounted the
face by a fluff of bejewelled yellow curls, encased the hind legs
upon which the creature stood upright in pink velvet Turkish
trousers and put tiny gold shoes on the feet. She greatly
exaggerated the wings into long trails and made them of green
gauze with ruffled edges. All the remainder of the legs she had
transformed into so many braceleted arms, each holding a tiny
fan, or a necklace, a jewel box, or a handkerchief of lace. She
stood before this sketch, studying it for a few minutes, then she
walked over to the table and came back with a big black pencil.
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