“In the horrible night hours I struggled against it. I even implored you to leave me.”

“Ah, but I loved you!”

“You would not be warned, you would not listen. You stayed with me, and slowly, surely, the creative urge went out of your life.”

“But what on earth could you find in my poor art to attract you? What were my pictures to you?”

“I needed them, I needed you. It was a certain something, a rich colour effect, perhaps. And then, under your very eyes, the colour that vanished from your canvases reappeared in my prose. My style became more luxurious than it had been, while you tortured your soul in the vain attempt of calling back to your brush what was irretrievably lost.”