I see
how you have reasoned it out. I wonder if I can make you understand?"
"Ernestine,"--the old enthusiasm had kindled in his face with the
summoning of the thoughts--"no painter or sculptor ever loved his work
more than I loved mine. And I had that same kind of joy in it; that
delight in it as a beautiful thing to achieve. That may seem strange to
you. But the working out of something I was able to do brought me the
same delight the working out of a picture brings to you. Dear, it was my
very soul. And so, instead of there being two forces in my life after I
had you, it was just the one big thing. You made me bigger and because I
was bigger I wanted to do bigger things. Don't you see that?"
She held his hand a little more closely in response. He knew that she
understood.
"Don't think I have given up--why of course I haven't. I will adjust
myself in a little time--do what there is for me to do. I am going to see
immediately about a secretary, a stenographer--no, Ernestine, I don't
want you to do that.
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