"You see," he would explain, "there are so many details to be worked out in a thing like this, and I mustn't slur over any of them. We must make it the best we can. And it will soon be done."
But a little throb of regret would clutch his heart as he said that.
And one evening he did come to the end, the illustrative sketches complete, the beautiful plans all made, the last calculation for the specifications set down.
"There! It's done."
He propped a sketch on the easel and leaned back, sighing.
Shirley looked up from her novel. "Thank goodness—at last! Are you sure you've made it the very best you can?"
"Yes." He looked long at the sketch, a strange wistfulness in his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever do as well again."
"Suppose it shouldn't win, after all?"
"Oh, don't!" he cried. "Don't suggest that—just now."
She caught the sudden sharp pain in his voice and looked at him wonderingly.