They were so ignorant of the new arts that even Mary
Pickford meant hardly more to them than Picasso or Matisse.
Jim brought out a photograph of Kedzie, a small one that he carried
in his pocket-book for company. The problem of what she looked like
distracted attention for the moment from the problem of what she did
and was.
Mrs. Dyckman took the picture and perused it anxiously. Her husband
leaned over her shoulder and studied it, too. He was mollified
and won by the big, gentle eyes and that bee-stung upper lip. He
grumbled:
"Well, you're a good chooser for looks, anyway. Sweet little thing."
Mrs. Dyckman examined the face more knowingly. She saw in those big,
innocent eyes a serene selfishness and a kind of sweet ruthlessness.
In the pouting lips she saw discontent and a gift for wheedling. But
all she said was, "She's a darling."
Jim caught the knell-tone in her praise and feared that Kedzie was
dead to her already. He saw more elegy in her sigh of resignation
to fate and her resolution to take up her cross--the mother's cross
of a pretty, selfish daughter-in-law.
"You haven't told us yet how she won her--fame, you said."
And now Jim had to tell it.
"She has had great success in the--the--er--pictures."
"She's a painter--an illustrator?"
"No, she--well--you know, the moving pictures have become very
important; they're the fifth largest industry in the world, I
believe, and--"
The silence of the parents was deafening.
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