“‘Ah, dearest, I am sick at heart,
It is so little I can do—
I talk my jargon—live for art—
I’d much prefer to live for you!
How dull and lifeless colors are!
You smile, and all my picture lies.
I wish that I could crush a star
To make a pigment for your eyes.’”
Viola laughed and rose.
“Well, I can not stay any longer today, because auntie and I are going to the White House reception now. Will you come with us, Florian?”