The door was opened gently and Bainbridge Breen came in. “Busy?” he inquired.
“Come in! I’ll be through in a second,” Nielsen returned without looking up.
The painter came forward. The author’s pencil scribbled a little faster, a period was jotted down, and he laid aside the pencil, at the same time eyeing his work and sighing with satisfaction.
“Finished?”
“Oh no, not for some time. I’ve got several thousand words more,” Nielsen explained.
“How’s it coming on?”
“Splendidly!” was the optimistic rejoinder. “If I can keep sufficient enthusiasm in my body, I ought to be able to carry it through perfectly.”
“It’ll be your chef-d’oeuvre, I suppose,” Breen observed with his customary pleasantry.
“I hope so,” Nielsen admitted seriously. “It’s stronger than anything I’ve done, I feel. It shows maturity, I think, not only maturity of judgment, but maturity of execution as well.”
“In other words, Art,” Breen interrupted slyly. “What more do you ask?”