"Some things," David said gravely, "are so beautiful that they are up-to-date in every age. And real beauty is always impressive because it is so rare."
"Humph!" said Bixby, and dismissed his caller.
David set to work that very night, going over all his old sketches in search of the best. And because none of them had ever quite satisfied him, he discarded them all. He began a new series of sketches, sitting up at nights long after he should have been asleep. He discarded these, too. For this idea must be so very good that the committee couldn't help accepting it.
"I think," he told himself often, "I have reached the point where I can do something really worth while."
One night when he had gone reluctantly to bed, sleep would not come. For a long while he lay staring at a white patch of moonlight on the floor.
Suddenly he sat up, sprang out of bed and, still in his pajamas, sat down before his easel.
In the morning Shirley found him there, looking raptly at the completed sketch.
"David Quentin, what in the name of common sense are you doing here?"
"Look!" he whispered, almost in awe. "This is it."
Shirley looked. And she, who had picked up a little knowledge of architecture from him, knew that it was good.