Peer read the expression in their eyes—these cold-blooded specialists had seen the vision; they had seen gold.
But all the same there was a hitch—a little hitch.
Dinner was over, the visitors had left, and Merle and Peer were alone. She lifted her eyes to his inquiringly.
“It went off well then?” she asked.
“Yes. But there is just one little thing to put right.”
“Still something to put right—after you have worked so hard all these months?” She sat down, and her hands dropped into her lap.
“It’s only a small detail,” he said eagerly, pacing up and down. “When the grass is wet, it sticks between the steel fingers above the shears and accumulates there and gets in the way. It’s the devil and all that I never thought of testing it myself in wet weather. But once I’ve got that right, my girl, the thing will be a world-success.”
Once more the machine was set up in his workshop, and he walked around it, watching, spying, thinking, racking his brain to find the little device that should make all well. All else was finished, all was right, but he still lacked the single happy thought, the flash of inspiration—that given, a moment’s work would be enough to give this thing of steel life, and wings with which to fly out over the wide world.
It might come at any moment, that happy thought. And he tramped round and round his machine, clenching his fists in desperation because it was so slow in coming.
The last touch only, the dot upon an i, was wanting. A slight change in the shape or position of the fingers, or the length of the shears—what was it he wanted? How could he sleep that night?