after that, perhaps the world is a stiffer sort of affair . . ."
"No," she said decisively. "You could have done great things.
"Even now," she said, "you may do great things—. If only I might see you sometimes, write to you sometimes—. You are so capable and—weak. You must have somebody—. That is your weakness. You fail in your belief. You must have support and belief—unstinted support and belief. Why could I not be that to you? It is all I want to be. At least—all I want to be now. Why need she know? It robs her of nothing. I want nothing—she has. But I know of my own strength too I can do nothing. I know that with you . . . It is only knowing hurts her. Why should she know?"
Mr. Lewisham looked at her doubtfully. That phantom greatness of his, it was that lit her eyes. In that instant at least he had no doubts of the possibility of his Career. But he knew that in some way the secret of his greatness and this admiration went together. Conceivably they were one and indivisible. Why indeed need Ethel know? His imagination ran over the things that might be done, the things that might happen, and touched swiftly upon complication, confusion, discovery.
"The thing is, I must simplify my life. I shall
