“I must, if I want to get the picture done.”
“And that's all you want?”
“Of course. Don't be stupid, Dick.”
“You haven't the power. You have only the ideas—the ideas and the little cheap impulses. How you could have kept at your work for ten years steadily is a mystery to me. So you are really going,—a month before you need?”
“I must do my work.”
“Your work—bah!... No, I didn't mean that. It's all right, dear. Of course you must do your work, and—I think I'll say goodbye for this week.”
“Won't you even stay for tea?”
“No, thank you. Have I your leave to go, dear? There's nothing more you particularly want me to do, and the line-work doesn't matter.”
“I wish you could stay, and then we could talk over my picture. If only one single picture's a success, it draws attention to all the others. I know some of my work is good, if only people could see. And you needn't have been so rude about it.”
“I'm sorry. We'll talk the Melancolia over some one of the other Sundays. There are four more—yes, one, two, three, four—before you go. Goodbye, Maisie.”