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"N--o, Karl; I think not. It seems to me
she must be open to it in every way to make it stand for life, in the
sense I want it to."
"Perhaps," he said, his voice drooping a little. And then, abruptly:
"Have you done any of that?"
"Oh, just some little sketches."
"Show me the little sketches," he begged. "I want to see them all."
"Oh, but Karl, they wouldn't convey the idea at all. Wait until it is
farther along."
"No, please show them this morning,"--softly, persuasively.
She was puzzled, and reluctant, but she got them out, and with them other
things to show him. He asked many questions. In the sketches she was
going to develop he would know just how she was going to elaborate them.
He asked her to tell just how they would look when worked out. "I'm a
sick boy home from school," he said, "and I must be amused." And then he
looked at her finished pictures; she protested against the intentness
with which he looked at some of them, insisting they were not worth the
strain she could see it was on his eyes.


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