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           "I’dratherbeherebyyou,"saidSue. "BesidesIdon’twantyoutokeeplookingatthosesillyivyleaves." 

           "Tellmeassoonasyouhavefinished,"saidJohnsy,closinghereyes,andlyingwhiteandstillasafallenstatue,"becauseIwanttoseethelastonefall. I’mtiredofwaiting. I’mtiredofthinking. Iwanttoturnloosemyholdoneverything,andgosailingdown,down,justlikeoneofthosepoor,tiredleaves." 

           "Trytosleep,"saidSue. "ImustcallBehrmanuptobemymodelfortheoldhermitminer. I’llnotbegoneaminute. Don’ttrytomove‘tillIcomeback." 

           OldBehrmanwasapainterwholivedonthegroundfloorbeneaththem. HewaspastsixtyandhadaMichaelAngelo’sMosesbeardcurlingdownfromtheheadofasatyralongthebodyofanimp. Behrmanwasafailureinart. FortyyearshehadwieldedthebrushwithoutgettingnearenoughtotouchthehemofhisMistress’srobe. Hehadbeenalwaysabouttopaintamasterpiece,buthadneveryetbegunit. Forseveralyearshehadpaintednothingexceptnowandthenadaubinthelineofcommerceoradvertising. Heearnedalittlebyservingasamodeltothoseyoungartistsinthecolonywhocouldnotpaythepriceofaprofessional. Hedrankgintoexcess,andstilltalkedofhiscomingmasterpiece. Fortheresthewasafiercelittleoldman,whoscoffedterriblyatsoftnessinanyone,andwhoregardedhimselfasespecialmastiff-inwaitingtoprotectthetwoyoungartistsinthestudioabove. 

           SuefoundBehrmansmellingstronglyofjuniperberriesinhisdimlylighteddenbelow.