The artist set the Elliott sketch beside the copy, and compared them for a time. Then he fell to wandering desolately about the studio. Suddenly he turned, walked over to his friend, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Kent, for the love of heaven, can’t you do something for me?”
“You mean about the girl?”
Sedgwick nodded. “I can’t get my mind to stay on anything else. Even this infernal puzzle of the pictures doesn’t interest me for more than the minute. The longing for her is eating the heart out of me.”
“My dear Frank,” said the other quietly, “if there were anything I could do, don’t you think I’d be doing it? It’s a very dark tangle. And first of all I have to clear you—”
“Never mind me! What do I care what people think?”
“Or what she may think?”
Sedgwick’s head drooped. “I didn’t consider that.”
“It may be the very center-point for consideration.”
“If there were only something to do!” fretted the artist. “It’s this cursed inaction that is getting my nerve!”