"Ambition and passion and power,
Came out of the North and the West,
Every year, every day, every hour,
Into Fleet Street to fashion their best.
They would write what is noble and wise,
They must live by a traffic in lies!"
Ah, but it was wrong of her to take that view. As if one could ever tell the truth in a world where the very fabric of society is woven from lies and false conceptions. How could he tell her and make her believe that he was thrilled, and that his throat tightened at things that he saw—and yet he never dared give way to his emotions, and write them. Why, the most vital things in his life were not the things he wrote, but the things he did not write.
Though his mind was rioting with indignation, he laughed. "We mustn't take our work too seriously," he said. "It's too ephemeral for that. Things only last a day."
She did not answer. She turned from him without a word. He had meant to anger her, and he had succeeded. There was a chatter of voices in the passage and Mrs Hayman came into the room with Dyotkin. Elizabeth went towards him.
"Won't you play something?" she begged.