He sighed again.
“It was not until last evening,”—her voice changed oddly—“that I heard you were at home.”
“Nice of you to come and see me,” he said. “You must excuse the room being in a litter.” There was a table in the center on which was a drawing board, geometrical instruments, many sheets of paper. “I’ve been trying to work. I’m always trying ... but ... you need eyes to be an architect ... you need eyes.”
Sally was suddenly pierced by the thought of his ambition and his passion for work. He was going to do so much, he had begun so well.
“I have an idea for a new cathedral for Louvain. Been studying ecclesiastical architecture for years in my spare time.” As he paused his face looked ghastly. “It’s all in my head ... but....”
“Is it possible”—she could hardly speak—“for any one to help you—in the details, I mean?”
“They would have to get right inside my mind ... some one practical ... yet very sympathetic ... and then the chances are that it wouldn’t work out.”
“It might, though.”
“Somehow, I don’t think so.” He was curiously frank. “I tell myself it might, just to keep going. There’s always the bare chance if I get the right person to help me ... some one with great intelligence, great insight, great sympathy, yet without ideas of their own.”