The difficulties of finding their bearings in these new waters increased. They talked of Hazleton, of their childhood, of the water-colour exhibition. Finally they drifted into a half-merry quarrel over theories of work. Once again the old, boyish, emphatic manner broke through the new reserve.
"Realism! There's nothing in it, French realism anyway, but impure taste and false accuracy."
The caller accepted with apparent interest an invitation to come again. In the street he fell to thinking.
"Anne has not changed in the least, but she looks tired. She has been working too hard. And her father's death was hard for her."
He had not expected the reminder of old days to be so poignant.
Anne went back to the studio and picked up her brushes. Howard had improved beyond her best hopes for him. He was not a blighted being, but was self-poised, interested in his work.
