I seemed to see the scene in bright illumination, him in that upper room with the curtains drawn across one end, his jacket and shirt tossed on to a chair, his great torso stripped to the buff, the sewing-machine held aloft. She would be at her board or easel, sketching—pretending to sketch—I don't know what. He had merely said, "Anybody likely to come in? No? Right! I don't mind you!"
It was true. He hadn't minded her. Otherwise he would never have displayed himself so gloriously before her eyes.
"Did that illustration ever appear?" I asked without looking at her.
I knew without looking that she smiled as she shook her head.
"Not that one. You know it didn't. The first one was good enough for them."
And she still had the King Arthur sketch too.
"And that was when he was thirty-three?"
Now that she was off there was no stopping her, even had I wished it.
"Yes. Did you know—will you believe—that he wrote his Vicarage in just over three months?"
"He was a furious worker."