By the time we are thirty the springs of pure lyric
passion are usually exhausted."
Ethel's inquiry somehow startled him. In truth, he could find no
satisfactory answer. A remark relative to his play--Clarke's play--rose
to the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as he
realised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that night
still dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. No, he had
accomplished but little during the last few months--at least, by way of
creative literature. So he replied that he had made money. "That is
something," he said. "Besides, who can turn out a masterpiece every
week? An artist's brain is not a machine, and in the respite from
creative work I have gathered strength for the future. But," he added,
slightly annoyed, "you are not listening."
His exclamation brought her back from the train of thoughts that his
words had suggested. For in his reasoning she had recognised the same
arguments that she had hourly repeated to herself in defence of her
inactivity when she was living under the baneful influence of Reginald
Clarke.
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