“I thought you liked your work,” Lavinia said; “I thought you were happy in it.”
Marley detected her regret, and was on the point of speaking, when Lavinia went on:
“I don’t see why you can’t go into literature as well as Mr. Weston.”
Marley laughed.
“The reason is that I haven’t his talent,” he said
“I don’t see why,” Lavinia argued with some resentment of his humility. “You haven’t enough confidence in your own powers; you let Mr. Weston dominate you too much.”
“Now, dearest,” he pleaded, “you mustn’t do Jim that injustice. He doesn’t dominate me; but he is so much wiser than I, he knows so much more. You will understand when you meet him.”
“Well,” she tentatively admitted, “that is no reason why you shouldn’t in time be a literary man as well as he. Why can’t you?”
“Because I can’t write, that’s why.”
“Why, Glenn, how can you say that? Your letters disprove that. Every one who read them said that they were remarkable, and that you should go into literature. They said you had such good descriptive powers.”