"What shall you call it, Maria?"
"No name, Carl. Perhaps I shall give it a name when it shall be really finished; but if it is to be what I expect, no one would remember its name on hearing it."
"Is it so beautiful, then, Maria?"
"To my fancy, most beautiful, Carl."
"That is like the Chevalier."
"He has written, and knows what he has written; but I do not believe he has ever felt such satisfaction in any work as I in this."
"I think in any one else it would be dreadfully presumptuous,—in you it is ambitious, I believe; but I have no fear about your succeeding."
"Thank you, Carl, nor I. Will you stay here with me and help me?"
"No, Maria, for you do not want help, and I should think no one could write unless alone. But I will prevent any one else from coming."
"No one else will come; but if you care to stay here, Carl, I can write in my room, and you, as you said you have set yourself certain tasks, can work in this one. I am very selfish I am afraid, for I feel pleasantly safe when you are near me. I think, Carl, you must have been a Sunday-child."