"Do you see him at his work?
At first, I only hid here to find what kind of people were going to live in my old home.
But when he was making our old barn into a studio, and I heard who you both were, I came because I love to watch him; as I try to make the music I think he would love to hear." The novelist studied her intently.

She was so artless--so unaffected by the conventions of the world--in a word, so natural in expressing her thoughts, that the man who had given the best years of his life to feed the vicious, grossly sensual and bestial imaginations of his readers was deeply moved.

He was puzzled what to say.

At last, he murmured haltingly, "You like the artist, then ?" Her eyes were full of curious laughter as she answered, "Why, what a funny question--when I have never even talked with him.

How _could_ I like any one I have never known ?" "But you make your music for him; and you come here to watch him ?" "Oh, but that is for the work he is doing; that is for his pictures." She turned to look through the tiny opening in the arbor.