He leaned back in his chair, his hand above his eyes, as she began
gathering up the things. "And so here I am," she said, waving her hand to
include the things about her, "surrounded by the things I've done. Not a
vast array, and some of it not amounting to much, but it's I, dear. It
reflects me all through these years."
"I know," he said--"that's just it,"--and at the way he said it she
looked up quickly. "You're tired, Karl. It's been too much. We'll go down
stairs now, and rest."
He watched her as she gathered the things together. It seemed he had
never really known this Ernestine before. Here was indeed the atmosphere
of work, the joy of working, all the earnestness and enthusiasm of the
real worker. And then, with masterful effort, he roused himself. He had
not yet touched what he had come to know.
"I have been thinking," he began, "a little about the psychology of all
this. You'll think I'm developing a wonderful interest in art, but you
see I'm laid up and can't do my own work, so I'm entitled to some
thoughts about art.
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