"Why don't I work," she would ask Karl,
"now that I am here where I always wanted to be?" But Karl would only
laugh, and say that was too obvious to explain. Once he had talked a
little about it. "I wouldn't worry, liebchen. Isn't it possible that the
creative instinct is being all used up? It's your dream time, sweetheart.
It's your time to do nothing but love. After a while you'll turn to the
work, and you'll do things easily then that were hard to do before."
How had he known? For nothing had ever been more true than that. She knew
this morning that she could do things easily now which had been hard to
do before.
One of the very best things about this curious, old-fashioned house was
that it had an attic which had all the possibilities of a studio. Just a
little remodeling--and Paris itself could do no better.
To that attic she turned just as soon as Karl had gone over to the
university. Her things had been carried up; now for a fine morning of
sorting them out! But instead of attacking the unpacking and sorting and
arranging she got no farther than a book of her sketches.
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