"Now!" cried the old man, waving the umbrella aside.
Dalny raised his eyes, and a feeling of faintness came over him. Then a peculiar choking sensation crept into his throat. For a moment he did not and could not speak. The thousands of little patches of paint radiating from the centre spot were but so many blurs on a flat canvas. The failure was pathetic, but it was complete.
The old man was reading his face. The faded sister had not taken her eyes from his.
"It does not dazzle you! You do not see the vibrations?"
"I am getting my eyes accustomed to it," stammered Dalny. "I cannot take it all in at once." He was hunting around in his mind for something to say—something that would not break the old man's heart.
"No! You cannot deceive me. I had hoped better things of you, Mr. Dalny. It is not your fault that you cannot see."
The old man had crossed to the door of his studio, had thrown it open, and stood as if waiting for Dalny to pass out.
"Yes, but let me look a little longer," protested Dalny. The situation was too pathetic for him to be offended.
"No—no—please excuse us—we are very happy, Louise and I, and I would rather you left us alone. I will come for you some other time—when my picture has been sent away. Please forgive my sister and me, but please go away."
Weeks passed before Dalny saw either one of the old people again. He watched for them, his door ajar, listening to every sound; but if they passed up and down the stairs, they did so when he was out or asleep. He had noticed, too, that all was still overhead, except a light tread which he knew must be the faded sister's. The heavier footfall, however, was silent.