The young man who entered nodded carelessly as he threw back the blue-gray cloak that hung about his shoulders and advanced into the room.
She regarded the action coldly. "I have been waiting, Albrecht." She spoke the words slowly. "Where have you been?"
"I see." He untied the silken strings of the cloak and tossed it from him. "I met Pirkheimer—we got to talking."
The thin lips closed significantly. She made no comment.
The young man crossed the room and knelt before a stack of canvases by the wall, turning them one by one to the light. His full lips puckered in a half whistle, and his eyes had a dreamy look.
The woman had returned to her work, drawing in the threads with swift touch.
As the man rose to his feet her eyes flashed a look at the canvas in his hand. They fell again on her work, and her face ignored him.
He placed the canvas on an easel and stood back to survey it. His lips whistled softly. He rummaged again for brushes and palette, and mixed one or two colors on the edge of the palette. A look of deep happiness filled his absorbed face.
She lifted a pair of scissors and snipped a thread with decisive click. "Are you going on with the portrait?" she asked. The tone was clear and even, and held no trace of resentment.
He looked up absently. "Not to-day," he said. "Not to-day." His gaze returned to the easel.