"What do you mean by that?"

"Have you done a stroke of work since I last saw you?"

"Yes, let me see, surely, magazine articles and a poem."

"That is not what I want to know. Have you accomplished anything big?
Have you grown since this summer? How about your novel?"

"I--I have almost finished it in my mind, but I have found no chance to
begin with the actual writing. I was sick of late, very sick."

No doubt of it! His face was pinched and pale, and the lines about the
mouth were curiously contorted, like those of a man suffering from a
painful internal disease.

"Tell me," she ventured, "do you ever miss anything?"

"Do you mean--are there thieves?"

"Thieves! Against thieves one can protect oneself."

He stared at her wildly, half-frightened, in anticipation of some
dreadful revelation. His dream! His dream! That hand! Could it be more
than a dream? God! His lips quivered.

Ethel observed his agitation and continued more quietly, but with the
same insistence: "Have you ever had ideas, plans that you began without
having strength to complete them? Have you had glimpses of vocal visions