t last Parker did sleep, to awake shortly after daylight. He got a hasty breakfast and took an early train to New York. When John Cartwright, a shrewd and kindly man well advanced in years, arrived at his office Allen Parker was right there waiting for him.
Cartwright had shown a real affection for the younger man, a paternal interest. He beamed, as usual, until he sat down with the new drawings. Slowly the smile faded from his face. He went over them twice, three times, and then he looked up.
"My boy," he said, "did you do these?"
"Yes."
"Do you know that you are turning a delicate and beautiful romance into a lascivious libel on the human race?"
"It is being done," replied Parker, in a low voice. "And I—I can't help myself!"
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that when I start to draw Madelon my hand produces that woman of Babylon! The writing is just as bad. It's full of sneering hints, double meanings ... I shall destroy the stuff. I've been to see a psycho-analyst."