He had fancied that the purchase of the group was
the dawn of a tardy recognition--and now the darkness of
indifference had set in again, no one spoke of him, no one wrote of
him, no one cared.
"If he were in good health it would not matter--he would throw off
such weakness, he would live only for the joy of his work; but he is
losing ground, his strength is failing, and he is so afraid there
will not be time enough left--time enough for full recognition," she
explained.
The quiver in her voice silenced Stanwell: he was afraid of echoing
it with his own. At length he said: "Oh, more orders will come.
Success is a gradual growth."
"Yes, _real_ success," she said, with a solemn note in which he
caught--and forgave--a reflection on his own facile triumphs.
"But when the orders do come," she continued, "will he have strength
to carry them out? Last winter the doctor thought he only needed
work to set him up; now he talks of rest instead! He says we ought
to go to a warm climate--but how can Caspar leave the group?"
"Oh, hang the group--let him chuck the order!" cried Stanwell.
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