"I don't know, Humphrey."
"Will the Poem be finished?"
"No. Will the Picture?"
"Not a chance."
"Had we not better, Humphrey, considering all the circumstances, make up our minds to throw over the engagement?"
"Tell me, Cornelius—how much of your Poem remains to be done?"
"Well, you see, there is not much actually written."
"Will you show it to me—what there is of it?"
"It is all in my head, Humphrey. Nothing is written."
He blushed prettily as he made the confession. But the Artist met him half-way with a frank smile.