“It does.”
She bent her head as though trying to hide her face from him. He did not seem to be conscious of what was happening, and of what might happen. His eyes were clear and far sighted, but they missed the foreground and its complex details.
He left his chair and came and stood by her.
“Eve.”
“Yes?”
“Did I say one word about money? Well, let’s have it out, and the dross done with. I ask you to be my illustrator, colour expert, garden artist—call it what you like. The work is there, more work than you can manage. I offer you five hundred a year.”
She still hid her face from him.
“That is preposterous. But it is like you in its generosity. But I——”
“Think. You and I see things as no two other people see them. It is an age of gardens, and I am being more and more pestered by people who want to buy plants and ideas. Why, you and I could create some of the finest things in colour. Think of it. You only want a little more technical knowledge. The genius is there.”
She appealed to him with a gesture of the hand.