I have reached the
end, but now it is hard to stop, hard to let go."
His tone gave first place, primary consideration, to his work. The
silence in the room suddenly became charged. When the voice was heard
again, there was constraint in it:
"There is something to be done this afternoon before dark, something I
have a share in. Having a share, I am interested. Being interested, I
am prompt. Being prompt, I am here."
He waved his hand over the written sheets before him--those cold Alps
of learning; and asked reproachfully:
"Are you not interested in all this, O you of little faith?"
"How can I say, O me of little knowledge!"
As the words impulsively escaped, he heard a quick movement behind
him. He widened out his heavy arms upon his manuscript and looked back
over his shoulder at her and laughed. And still smiling and holding
his pen between his fingers, he turned and faced her. She had advanced
into the middle of the room and had stopped at the chair on which he
had thrown his overcoat and hat. She had picked up the hat and stood
turning it and pushing its soft material back into shape for his
head--without looking at him.
The northern light of the winter afternoon, entering through the
looped crimson-damask curtains, fell sidewise upon the woman of the
picture.
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