"Several years ago I mapped out a novel and I've never had time to start it. I can't work sneaking moments. I'd have to have a straight sweep—and so I don't start it. But it gnaws there just the same."
"'Gnaws.' That's exactly what things do when they have no outlet."
He turned quickly. "Do you write, too?"
"No."
"But there's something you want to do. You couldn't understand if there weren't."
Jean shook her head. "It's mostly concerned with not wanting to do things. I have no special talent."
"How do you know? Have you tried anything?"
The irritation at her modesty was flattering. Jean flushed.
"No. But I have no faith in hidden genius. I'm twenty-four, you know, and it would have showed before this."
Herrick felt that she would have confessed to thirty-four just as readily. Her frankness repelled him.