Then
he began to doubt his own mind. He was afraid
the things he felt were not getting expressed in the
pictures he painted. In a half indignant mood he
stopped inviting people into his room and presently
got into the habit of locking the door. He began to
think that enough people had visited him, that he
did not need people any more. With quick imagina-
tion he began to invent his own people to whom he
could really talk and to whom he explained the
things he had been unable to explain to living peo-
ple. His room began to be inhabited by the spirits
of men and women among whom he went, in his
turn saying words. It was as though everyone Enoch
Robinson had ever seen had left with him some es-
sence of himself, something he could mould and
change to suit his own fancy, something that under-
stood all about such things as the wounded woman
behind the elders in the pictures.
The mild, blue-eyed young Ohio boy was a com-
plete egotist, as all children are egotists. He did not
want friends for the quite simple reason that no
child wants friends. He wanted most of all the peo-
ple of his own mind, people with whom he could
really talk, people he could harangue and scold by
the hour, servants, you see, to his fancy. Among
these people he was always self-confident and bold.
They might talk, to be sure, and even have opinions
of their own, but always he talked last and best.
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