Erna came in.
“I was down in the neighborhood,” she apologized.
“You were right to come up,” he reassured her, sorry to have treated her discourteously. “Take off your things!”
“But you’re busy,” she protested.
“Not at all. Only a little touch or two I was working on. They can wait.”
Reluctantly, Erna permitted him to help her remove her coat. She did not take off her hat. “Sit down,” he advised her, his regret for his momentary show of self-interest developing.
She sat down on a chair. He seated himself at his desk, but faced her. “What’s new?” he asked pleasantly.
“Nothin’ much,” she returned and glanced at him.
His glance met hers, and he quickly looked elsewhere. He felt a sharp pain: he had gone too far the other evening. Erna likewise looked away. She had seen enough; her instinct knew. There was an awkward pause.
Nielsen gave her a sidelong glance. What could he do? This was dreadful. He should not have gone so far. Erna was staring at the floor. He could see her pugnacious nose and her determined mouth and chin, and felt somewhat relieved. Her case might not be as serious as he feared. She had tenacious strength of character. But the situation was very uncomfortable notwithstanding. He should not have gone so far. It was selfish—whether a man’s selfishness or an artist’s. Nielsen turned away.