"But wait a bit."
He locked himself into his room. At last Merle knew what it was like
to have him at work. She could hear him in the mornings, walking up and
down and whistling. Then silence--he would be standing over his table,
busy with notes and figures. Then steps again. Now he was singing--and
this was a novelty to himself. It was as if he carried in him a store
of happiness, a treasure laid by of love, and the beauty of nature, and
happy hours, and now it found its way out in song. Why should he not
sing over the plans for a great barrage? Mathematics are dry work
enough, but at times they can be as living visions, soaring up into the
light. Peer sang louder. Then silence again. Merle never knew now when
he stopped work and came to bed. She would fall asleep to the sound
of his singing in his own room, and when she woke he would already be
tramping up and down again in there; and to her his steps seemed
like the imperious tread of a great commander. He was alight with new
visions, new themes, and his voice had a lordly ring. Merle looked at
him through half-closed eyes with a lingering glance. Once more he was
new to her: she had never seen him like this.
At last the work was finished, and he sent in his tender. And now he was
more restless than ever. For a week he waited for an answer, tramping in
and out of the place, going off for rides on Bijou, and coming back with
his horse dripping with sweat. An impatient man cannot possibly ride
at any pace but a gallop.
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