"I am glad to hear you say that, Celeste," he said at last, a deep sigh escaping involuntarily.
"He works feverishly," she went on, as though he had not spoken. "Of course, he is doing the work well. He never did anything badly. But I know he is positively driving himself, Douglass. There isn't anything like the old inspiration, nothing like the old love for the work."
"I see it all," he said, relief in his voice. "His heart is not in the work, simply because he is doing it for some one else and not for himself. They told him what they wanted and he is simply breaking his neck, Celeste, to get the job off his hands."
"But, listen to me, Douglass," she cried, in despair. "He told me they wanted five pictures—a series of studies from life. The series was to represent five periods in the life of a woman, beginning with childhood and ending in extreme old age. But, Douglass, dear, he is painting landscapes instead."
Converse bit his lip.
"You must have misunderstood him," he managed to say. She shook her head sadly.
"No; he was most precise in explaining the conditions to me the day after his return from Milwaukee. I remember that I was very much interested. The work, you know, upset our plan for going to Florida, and I was quite resentful at first. You can imagine my astonishment when I found that he was doing landscapes and not the figures the order calls for."
Converse was dumb in the face of this indisputable evidence. He could muster up no way to relieve her fears. There could be no reassuring her after what she had seen and he wisely forebore.
"It was very strange," he said, finally. "He must have a reason for the change, and no doubt he has forgotten to speak to you about it."
"I wish I could believe that, Douglass," she sighed. "He likes you. You can help me, if you will."