“Tell me—what is it?” she asked, almost timidly.
“Tell you?” He rose, stood by the window looking out, then turned to her:
“What can I tell you?” he added with a short laugh. “What have I to say to a girl who can do—these—after two years abroad?”
Sheer happiness kept her silent. She had not dared hope for such approval. Even now she dared not permit herself to accept it.
“I have so much to say,” she ventured, “and such an appalling amount of work before I can learn to say it––”
“Your work is—stunning!” he said bluntly.
“You don’t think so!” she exclaimed incredulously.
“Indeed I do! Look at what you have done in two years. Yes, grant all your aptitude and talents, just look what you’ve accomplished and where you are! Look at you yourself, too—what a stunning, bewildering sort of girl you’ve developed into!”
“Jim Neeland!”
“Certainly, Jim Neeland, of Neeland’s Mills, who has had years more study than you have, more years of advantage, and who now is an illustrator without anything in particular to distinguish him from the several thousand other American illustrators––”