"Surely you did not expect me
to answer that?"
"Why not?" He had again approached her and his lips were close to hers.
"Why not? I have yearned for you. I love you."
His breath intoxicated her; it was like a subtle perfume. Still she did
not yield.
"You love me now--you did not love me then. The music of your words was
cold--machine-made, strained and superficial. I shall not answer, I told
myself: in his heart he has forgotten you. I did not then realise that a
dangerous force had possessed your life and crushed in your mind every
image but its own."
"I don't understand."
"Do you think I would have come here if it were a light matter? No, I
tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an
artist."
"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.
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