"My dear," he said, "there will be neither painting nor drawing to-day."
"Am I in the way, Cornelius?"
"No, but you will have to stay quiet, and when I have done writing I shall go to town again."
I accepted the conditions, and obeyed them so scrupulously that I did not once open my lips until Cornelius, turning round and looking at me as I lay on the couch, asked if I did not feel tired. I replied, I did not mind, and was his letter finished?
"I have only a few lines more to add," he answered.
The few lines must have been pages, they took so long to indite. The little studio was burning hot; Cornelius was too much absorbed to be conscious of this, but I felt faint and drowsy. I drew myself up on the couch, laid my head on the cushion, looked at him as he bent with unwearied ardour over his desk, then closed my eyes and fell asleep to the sound of his pen still zealously running along the paper.
I know not how long I slept; I was partly awakened by a sound of whispering voices.
"The dinner will be ruined," said Kate.
"What is a dinner in comparison with a drawing?"
"I don't know—and don't care; a cook has no feelings."