“Will you let me look at it? I am a painter.”
“It isn't worth looking at, but—if you wish—”
He put the two halves of the sketch together.
“You see!” she said at last; “I told you.”
Harz did not answer, still looking at the sketch. The girl frowned.
Harz asked her suddenly:
“Why do you paint?”
She coloured, and said:
“Show me what is wrong.”
“I cannot show you what is wrong, there is nothing wrong—but why do you paint?”