The old man rubbed his chin slowly and looked at Dalny under his bushy eyebrows.
"I am afraid to speak. You have been very kind. My sister says you are always polite, and so few people are polite nowadays."
"Say what you please; don't worry about me. I learn something every day."
"No; I cannot. It would be cruel to tell you what I think, and Louise would not like it when she knew I had told you, and I must tell her. We tell each other everything."
"Is the color wrong?" persisted Dalny. "I've got the gray-white of the sky, as you see, and the reflected light from the red plush of the sofa; but the shadows between— Would you try a touch of emerald green here?"
The old man had risen from his seat now and was backing away toward the door, his hat in his hand, his bald head and the scanty gray hairs about his temples glistening in the overhead light of the studio.
"It would do you no good, my dear Mr. Dalny. Paint is never color. Color is an essence, a rhythm, a blending of tones as exquisite as the blending of sounds in the fall of a mountain-brook. Match each sound and you have its melody. Match each tone and you have light. I am working—working. Good-morning."
His hand was now on the door-knob, his face aglow with an enthusiasm which seemed to mingle with his words.
"Stop! Don't go; that's what I think myself," cried Dalny. "Talk to me about it."
The old man dropped the knob and looked at Dalny searchingly.