died away. Then she said:

"Do you know what they remind me of?"

"Of what?"

"My efforts. Those efforts I made long ago to live again in work."

"When you wrote?"

"Yes, when I tried to throw my mind and my heart down upon paper. How
strange it was! I had Vere--but she wasn't enough to still the ache.
And I knew what work can be, what a consolation, because I knew you.
And I stretched out my hands to it--I stretched out my soul. And it
was no use; I wasn't made to be a successful writer. When I spoke from
my heart to try and move men and save myself, my words were seized, as
yours were just now by the rock--seized, and broken, and flung back in
confusion. They struck my heart like stones. Emile, I'm one of those
people who can only do one thing: I can only feel."

"It is true that you could never be an artist. Perhaps you were made
to be an inspiration."

"But that's not enough. The role of starter to those who race--I
haven't the temperament to reconcile myself to that. It's not that I
have in me a conceit which demands to be fed. But I have in me a force
that clamors to exercise itself. Only when I was living on Monte Amato
with Maurice did I feel that the force was being used as God meant it
to be used."