He was ashamed that he had lost faith, even for a day.
Toward the end of the two months Shirley began to grow a little impatient with his industry.
"Will it never be finished?" she would sigh plaintively. "You never have any time to spare for me any more."
"You see," he would explain, "there are so many details to be worked out in a thing like this, and I mustn't slur over any of them. We must make it the best we can. And it will soon be done."
But a little throb of regret would clutch his heart as he said that.
And one evening he did come to the end, the illustrative sketches complete, the beautiful plans all made, the last calculation for the specifications set down.
He propped a sketch on the easel and leaned back, sighing.
Shirley looked up from her novel. "Thank goodness--at last! Are you sure you've made it the very best you can?"
"Yes." He looked long at the sketch, a strange wistfulness in his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever do as well again."
"Oh, don't!" he cried. "Don't suggest that--just now."
She caught the sudden sharp pain in his voice and looked at him wonderingly.
"Nothing," he answered, his voice gone dull now. "I guess I've been working harder than I thought and am pretty tired."
"You'd better go to bed early and get a good sleep."
But he did not do that. Instead, for the last time, he stayed up until nearly morning in the company of his completed work. It was as if he watched the night out with a loved one who in the morning must go upon a long uncertain journey. . . . This also Shirley, had she known, would have called very temperamental.
For a month they waited, a feverish, anxious but always hopeful month, for the committee's decision.
And then one morning as he sat idly in his office an errand boy came, under his arm a long round parcel.
When the boy was gone David quickly ripped open the parcel. It contained his sketches and plans. With them was a note.
"As we have accepted the plans submitted by Mr. Richard Holden, we return yours herewith. Thanking you for. . . ."
It was mid-afternoon when he rose from his table. The first dizzying shock had passed, but a dull unceasing ache was left and he was very tired. He tried to smile, to gather together the tatters of his courage and faith, but he could not think of the future. When he tried to think of Shirley a sickening qualm rushed over him, leaving him weak and nerveless.