"They have not." The emphasis pricked like a sword. Jean was leaning to him across the table. "You are not glad to put arc lights on pergolas, and the worm has never gnawed at all. It's not what you do that makes a failure or what you don't do. It's what we no longer dream of doing, and—you do want to enter."
The throbbing assurance drew Gregory's eyes. He tried to smile.
"But think of all the young, undefeated men whose souls have not been Palmerized."
Jean's eyes were black and stern, as Puck's were sometimes.
"Your soul has not been Palmerized. Nothing can hurt us unless we let it."
Gregory's fingers trembled as he lit another cigarette. Did she believe that really, of every one? Was it abstract faith, a gauge by which she measured men, or was it for him? He had to know.
"Then why didn't I go ahead? There's nothing exterior to prevent me."
"Because," Jean said slowly, "because, when we can really do big things, the light at first blinds and rather confuses. But you get used to the light and go ahead. You will draw the plans again."
There was a long silence, before Gregory said, without looking up:
"I believe I shall. And it will be all your fault."