I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many
gifts--exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends--a
wine-jug of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade
with handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of
rare lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball
on a bronze base--all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the
things I wanted were drums and horns and candy canes, and tarletan bags,
and pop-corn chains, and things that had to be wound up, and things that
whistled, and things that squawked, and things that sparkled. And Jimmie
wanted these things, but Elise didn't. She was perfectly content with
her elegant trifles.

It was late when we went out finally to the studio. There was snow
everywhere, but it was a clear night with a moon above the pines. A
great log burned in the fireplace, a shaded lamp threw a circle of gold
on shining mahogany. It seemed to me that Jimmie's writing quarters were
even more attractive in December than in June.

Yet, looking back, I can see that to Jimmie the little house was a sort
of prison. He loved men and women, contact with his own kind. He had
even liked our dingy old office and our dreary, dried-up selves. And
here, day after day, he sat alone--as an artist must sit if he is to
achieve--_es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille_.

We sat around the fire in deep leather chairs, all except Elise, who had
a cushion on the floor at Jimmie's feet.

He read with complete absorption, and when he finished he looked at me.
"What do you think of it?"