Ernestine sat for a little time listening to them, grateful for the relaxation of the tension, more grateful still for this touch of Karl's old-time self. But following upon that the very consciousness that they saw the real Karl so seldom now brought added pain. What would the future hold? What could it hold? Must he not go farther and farther from this real self as he adjusted himself more and more fully to the new order of things?
Watching him then, as he talked and listened, she could appreciate anew what Karl's eyes had meant to his personality. It almost broke her heart to see him lean forward and look in that half-eager, half-fretted way toward the man who was speaking, as though his blindness were a barrier between their minds, a barrier he instinctively tried to beat down.
She wanted to get away, and she felt they would get along better now without her. So she left them, laughingly, to their cigars and their discussion.
She wandered about the house listlessly, mechanically doing a few things here and there. And then, still aimlessly, she went up to her studio. She sat down on the floor, leaning her head against the couch. Just then she looked like a very tired, disappointed child.
And it was with something of a child's simplicity she saw things then. Was it right to treat Karl that way—Karl who was so great and good—could do such big things? Was it fair or right that Karl should be unhappy—Karl who did so much for other people, and who had all this sweetness and tenderness with the greatness?
What could she do for Karl? She loved him enough to lay down her life for him. Then was there not some way she could use her life to make things better for him?
And so she sat there, her thoughts brooding over him, too tired for anything but very simple thinking, too worn for passion, but filled with the sadness of a grieving child. It was after she had been looking straight at it for a long time that she realised she Was looking at a picture on her easel.
Dimly, uncaringly, she knew what the picture was. But she was thinking only of Karl. It was a long time before her mind really followed her eyes to the picture.
It was a sketch of a woman's face. She remembered what a splendid model she had had for it. And then suddenly her mind went full upon it; her whole bearing changed; she leaned forward with a passionate intentness.
Unsatisfied longing, disappointed motherhood, deep, deep things stirred only to be denied! Yes, the model had been a good one, but it was from her own soul the life things in that face had come.