"Show me," I said, and held out my hands for the sketch-book.
"Nothing but notes in it," he said, but I looked, not swiftly, through all the pages and—for we Poles have an instinct in such matters—saw that the work was good.
"Do you wish to draw me, Master?" I said.
He perceived that I meant the term, and he looked troubled and pleased.
"Will you sit for me?" he asked. "I will—"
But I shook my head to keep him from mentioning money.
"Very cheerfully," I said. "It is easy for the old to sit—especially when, by the mere act of sitting, it is possible for them to become immortal. I have a room two flights up—where you will not be disturbed."
"Splendid!" he said. "You are splendid! Everything's splendid!"
When he had placed me as he wished, I asked him why my head suited him more than another's.
"How do I know?" he said. "Instinct—you seem a cheerful man and yet I have never seen a head and face that stood so clearly for—for—please take me as I am, I don't ever mean to offend—steadiness in sorrow…. I am planning a picture in which there is to be an ol—a man of your age who looks as—as late October would look if it had a face…."