Then suddenly she came sharply back to the practical, brought herself
ruthlessly back to it, as if fearing it was her practicality he would
question. "Besides, Karl's work is the more important. Nobody is going to
die for a water colour or an oil painting; people are dying every day for
the things Karl can give. But, doctor,"--far too feminine not to press
the advantage--"if I can do _that_, don't you think you can afford to
break through your conservatism and--you _will_, doctor, won't you?"
But Dr. Parkman had wheeled his chair about so that she could not see his
face. His eyes had grown a little dim.
"You see, doctor,"--gently,--"what I am going to give to it? Not only the
things any one else could give, but all my love for Karl, and added to
that all those things within myself which have heretofore been poured
into my own work. I _can_ paint, doctor, you and I know that, and I think
you know something of how I love it. Something inside of me has always
been given to it--a great big something for which there is no name.
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