It's too maddening!"
There was no possibility of arguing, for the red-haired girl was in the studio.
Dick could only look unutterable reproach.
"I'm sorry," he said, "and I think you make a mistake. But what's the idea of
your new picture?"
"I took it from a book."
"That's bad, to begin with. Books aren't the places for pictures. And----"
"It's this," said the red-haired girl behind him. "I was reading it to Maisie
the other day from The City of Dreadful Night. D'you know the book?"
"A little. I am sorry I spoke. There are pictures in it. What has taken her
fancy?"
"The description of the Melancolia--
'Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle,
But all too impotent to lift the regal
Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride.
And here again. (Maisie, get the tea, dear.)
'The forehead charged with baleful thoughts and dreams,
The household bunch of keys, the housewife's gown,
Voluminous indented, and yet rigid
As though a shell of burnished metal frigid,
Her feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down."
There was no attempt to conceal the scorn of the lazy voice. Dick winced.
"But that has been done already by an obscure artist by the name of Durer,"
said he. "How does the poem run?--
'Three centuries and threescore years ago,
With phantasies of his peculiar thought.
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