Mendel paid no attention to him. He wanted to study his Ruth, to find out its precise meaning for him, and, if possible, in what mysterious part of his talent it had originated.
It had made him feel happy again and had restored his confidence. He was serenely sure of himself, without arrogance. He was almost humble, yet tantalized because he could not think of a whole picture in the terms of that one piece of paint. He remembered the strange excitement in which he had conceived it, the almost nonchalance with which he had executed it. And to think that not a soul had seen it! The fools! The fools!
He was ashamed to be seen looking so intently at his own work. The next day he was back again and told Cluny that it was not for sale.
“I don’t think it’s a seller, Mr. Kühler,” said Cluny.
“It’s not for sale,” repeated Mendel.
He went every day and had no other thought. He wandered about in a dream, not seeing people in the streets, not hearing when he was spoken to.
On the fifth day as he entered Cluny’s he began to tremble, and he fell against a man who was coming out. The blood rushed to his heart and beat at his temples. He knew why it was. The air seemed full of an enchantment that settled upon him and drew him towards the gallery. He knew he was going to see her, and she was there with Clowes, standing in front of his Ruth. Clowes was laughing at it, but Morrison, with brows knit, obviously angry, was trying to explain it.
“I’m trying to explain the cornfield to Clowes,” she said. “Do come and help me.”
“I can’t explain it myself,” he said, marvelling at the ease of the meeting. At once he and she were together and Clowes was out of it, like a dweller in another world.