“Bravo! So that will be the end of your story?”
“I don’t know,” Nielsen silenced him and smiled a second time.
Breen shook his head with a knowing air. After an interval, he requested: “Will you see her again?”
“I’m not certain,” Nielsen said without emotion. “I imagine I will some time. But it won’t be necessary.”
The young men finished their meal.
A little later, Nielsen was alone in his studio. He was sitting at his small writing desk, looking over some material that lay in front of him. Presently, he seemed worried, but only for a moment. No, the point was absolutely clear. Erna had settled it for him the other evening. At heart, she was unmoral. The young author commenced writing.
Through some insidious channel, a thought managed to come between his mind and the manuscript: would he see her again? Quickly, he beat it down: it would be unnecessary to see her again; there was nothing more for him to learn. Still, he had enjoyed himself the other evening. The physical, so glorious, so great, had once more penetrated his life. Would he drive it away? Nielsen stopped writing.
Almost resentfully, he mused: What had he and the physical to do with each other? The physical gave him new experience, yes, but it was almost always experience that he courted and utilized for his work. He must not expect more; he must continue to sacrifice everything—thought, emotion, volition—to work. Nothing else existed; in no other way could he hope to reach the realm of artist. He must drive Erna and the other evening’s sensations from his memory. She had served as his model, no more; so he must not permit her personality or his own to interfere again. Furthermore, he must be cautious on her behalf as well. She was a joyous, healthy animal. Jimmy Allen was a joyous, healthy animal. They were mated, and were living together, undoubtedly. The chapter was closed. He must not desire more.
Nielsen tightened his resolve. In another moment, he was again busy, writing.
There was a knock at the door. He did not hear it. The knock was repeated more loudly. He looked around petulantly, got up, went over to the door and opened it. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, but not with cordiality.