the man who understands and can put to use what the creator creates. We don’t seem to find creativity and its practical application in the same person.”
He looked, half-smiling, at Rann’s eager, listening face.
“What a beautiful boy you are,” he said softly. The sheets slipped from his hands to the floor. “I wonder what we are to be to each other, you and I! Do you ever dream of love, Rann?”
Rann shook his head, entranced, shy, suddenly almost afraid—but of what?
Sharpe stooped and collected the sheets. He put them neatly together and placed them on the table beside his chair. Then he went to the wide window at the far end of his study and looked out. A streetlamp shone dimly through the all-but-impenetrable snow. He drew down the shade. “You had better spend the night with me,” he said, returning to his chair. “Your mother will worry about your walking so far in this storm. So shall I. You may have my guest room. That’s where my younger brother stays when he comes to visit me.”
“I’ll have to telephone my mother,” Rann said.
“Of course. There’s the telephone, on my desk. Tell her my Filipino houseman will give us a good dinner.”
He took up the sheets and glanced over them one by one, seeming not to hear the conversation.
“He’s invited me to stay because of the storm. But will you be all right, Mother?”
“Oh yes,” his mother said, almost gaily. “Mary Crookes is here. She came in an hour ago—she was shopping and simply couldn’t get home through the storm. She was just breathless when she reached our house. I’d asked her to stay, anyway. It’s really not safe to be out alone in such a storm. The wind is beginning to blow a gale. I’ll feel safe about you if you’re with Dr. Sharpe. Good night, darling—see you tomorrow.”
Rann hung up the receiver. “By chance she has a friend with her—someone who lives on the edge of town and came in to shop and got caught in the snowstorm.”
“Splendid,” Sharpe said absently as though he did not hear.
“I’ve been looking over this paper again. You’ve done a brilliant job—really exciting. Ah, I hope I can be useful to you! I’m so sure you’ve a rare quality, Rann—I can’t tell exactly what direction it will take. I don’t know your center of interest. That’s what makes a creator—to have an eternal, unchanging interest in something and the capacity for dedication to it—a life interest, something you know you were born to do.”
“I want to know everything first,” Rann said.
He caught Sharpe’s look, a look yearning and strange, half-shy and half-bold.
“There is so much I don’t know,” Rann continued.
“There’s so much I don’t know about you ,” Sharpe retorted. He turned away and seemed absorbed in straightening the pages he held in both hands. “For example—your father is dead. Your mother is a shy woman. How are you to know anything about—let’s say—sex? You’re in for a great deal of temptation, my boy—women being what they are today—anything goes when they see a handsome young man. I wonder if you know how to protect yourself. It would be so disastrous to your development if you should imagine yourself in love with some girl—or woman, even, for it’s more likely that a brilliant young mind is drawn to an older woman—well, the disaster would be the same. And you’re so vulnerable , dear, with your extraordinary imagination! If I can save you from something like that, merely by being your friend—”
“I don’t know any girls,” Rann said bluntly. “As for older women—” He shook his head. This discussion was distasteful to him.
Sharpe laughed. “Well, just let me know when and if, and I’ll come to your rescue!”
HE WENT TO BED THAT NIGHT with a warm sense of comfort and of mental and spiritual stimulation. Not since his father’s death had he spent such an evening. Perhaps never had he spent such an evening, for Sharpe had a sense of humor
He looked, half-smiling, at Rann’s eager, listening face.
“What a beautiful boy you are,” he said softly. The sheets slipped from his hands to the floor. “I wonder what we are to be to each other, you and I! Do you ever dream of love, Rann?”
Rann shook his head, entranced, shy, suddenly almost afraid—but of what?
Sharpe stooped and collected the sheets. He put them neatly together and placed them on the table beside his chair. Then he went to the wide window at the far end of his study and looked out. A streetlamp shone dimly through the all-but-impenetrable snow. He drew down the shade. “You had better spend the night with me,” he said, returning to his chair. “Your mother will worry about your walking so far in this storm. So shall I. You may have my guest room. That’s where my younger brother stays when he comes to visit me.”
“I’ll have to telephone my mother,” Rann said.
“Of course. There’s the telephone, on my desk. Tell her my Filipino houseman will give us a good dinner.”
He took up the sheets and glanced over them one by one, seeming not to hear the conversation.
“He’s invited me to stay because of the storm. But will you be all right, Mother?”
“Oh yes,” his mother said, almost gaily. “Mary Crookes is here. She came in an hour ago—she was shopping and simply couldn’t get home through the storm. She was just breathless when she reached our house. I’d asked her to stay, anyway. It’s really not safe to be out alone in such a storm. The wind is beginning to blow a gale. I’ll feel safe about you if you’re with Dr. Sharpe. Good night, darling—see you tomorrow.”
Rann hung up the receiver. “By chance she has a friend with her—someone who lives on the edge of town and came in to shop and got caught in the snowstorm.”
“Splendid,” Sharpe said absently as though he did not hear.
“I’ve been looking over this paper again. You’ve done a brilliant job—really exciting. Ah, I hope I can be useful to you! I’m so sure you’ve a rare quality, Rann—I can’t tell exactly what direction it will take. I don’t know your center of interest. That’s what makes a creator—to have an eternal, unchanging interest in something and the capacity for dedication to it—a life interest, something you know you were born to do.”
“I want to know everything first,” Rann said.
He caught Sharpe’s look, a look yearning and strange, half-shy and half-bold.
“There is so much I don’t know,” Rann continued.
“There’s so much I don’t know about you ,” Sharpe retorted. He turned away and seemed absorbed in straightening the pages he held in both hands. “For example—your father is dead. Your mother is a shy woman. How are you to know anything about—let’s say—sex? You’re in for a great deal of temptation, my boy—women being what they are today—anything goes when they see a handsome young man. I wonder if you know how to protect yourself. It would be so disastrous to your development if you should imagine yourself in love with some girl—or woman, even, for it’s more likely that a brilliant young mind is drawn to an older woman—well, the disaster would be the same. And you’re so vulnerable , dear, with your extraordinary imagination! If I can save you from something like that, merely by being your friend—”
“I don’t know any girls,” Rann said bluntly. “As for older women—” He shook his head. This discussion was distasteful to him.
Sharpe laughed. “Well, just let me know when and if, and I’ll come to your rescue!”
HE WENT TO BED THAT NIGHT with a warm sense of comfort and of mental and spiritual stimulation. Not since his father’s death had he spent such an evening. Perhaps never had he spent such an evening, for Sharpe had a sense of humor
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