This jumped with Rose's mood exactly, and she promptly fell to, with a
momentary flare-up of the zest with which she had gone to work for
Galbraith. But it was only momentary. She hadn't a natural aptitude for
drawing, and her attempts to make the black lines she desperately dug
and smudged into the white paper represent, recognizably, the object she
was looking at failed so lamentably as to discourage her almost from the
start.
She kept at it for the two weeks she'd contracted for, but at the end of
that time she gave it up. She hadn't made any visible progress, and
besides, she might be hearing from Galbraith almost any day now.
And when, four or five days later, her intolerable restlessness over
waiting for a letter that didn't come, making up reasons why it hadn't
come, one minute, and deciding that it never would, the next, drove her
to do something once more, she set out on a new tack. If the ability to
make fancy little water-colors of impossible-looking girls in only less
impossible costumes were really an essential part of the business of
designing the latter, then she'd have to set about learning, in a
systematic way, to paint them; find out the proper way to begin, and
take her time about it.
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