"You must write," she said, administering the most exquisite flattery that
human lips could give.

Of course he meant to write--why not to do something great in his turn?
His best, at least; with the resolve, at the outset, that his best should
be _the_ best. Nothing less seemed possible with that mandate in his ears.
How she had divined him; lifted and disentangled his groping ambitions;
laid the awakening touch on his spirit with her creative _Let there be
light!_

It was his last day with her, and he was feeling very hopeless and happy.

"You ought to write a book about _him,"_ she went on gently.

Danyers started; he was beginning to dislike Rendle's way of walking in
unannounced.

"You ought to do it," she insisted. "A complete interpretation--a summing-
up of his style, his purpose, his theory of life and art. No one else
could do it as well."

He sat looking at her perplexedly. Suddenly--dared he guess?

"I couldn't do it without you," he faltered.

"I could help you--I would help you, of course."

They sat silent, both looking at the lake.