“And that one?” asked Stella.
“He had a birthday when he fell in love with you. That is yours; he has given you that. My dear, he adores you. When you come into the room his face is lit. Only, for Heaven’s sake, don’t worry him and question him about his soul and his depth and the exact way in which he loves you. If you insist, he will try to answer you, and his answers will be dreadfully disappointing to you, because he doesn’t know anything about it. To question him is like—it is like looking at light through a prism or a spectroscope, splitting it up into rays, when instead you might be sitting in the sun. Dear me, how very precise and definite I am becoming. I mean exactly that—I hope I am not going to be ill.”
Stella laughed.
“Dear Lady Sunningdale, I hope not,” she said. “In any case, tell me some more first.”
“My dear, I can’t talk sense to order. You must collect the extremely valuable grains of gold in my conversation for yourself out of the extraordinary mass of quite valueless material.”
“But he is disconcerting,” began Stella again.
“Ah, yes, but so quite certainly are you to him. Heaven, how dull it would be if other people never disconcerted one. But I don’t think Martin, though I am sure he must often find you disconcerting, would ever say so.”
Stella flushed slightly.
“Is that a reproof?” she asked, gently.
“It certainly is, if it occurs to you that it may be, so pray, pray, don’t deserve it again. Where is Suez? Oh, there. And don’t allow yourself, ever allow yourself to think ‘What a pity there is an occasional lump of clay.’ For, indeed, there is so much lightning. If there wasn’t a little clay, I really think Martin would explode, go off in spontaneous combustion. My dear, hours and hours of every day pass for Martin at a pressure of which stupid people like you and I have no conception. He recuperates by restful intervals, by being a mere boy with huge animal spirits. You may thank your stars he does not recuperate by being vicious or sulky. Most geniuses are morose and very few are quite sane. Martin is quite sane, and even the Bear, who takes the gloomiest possible view of him, couldn’t call him morose. Go down on your knees, my dear, and be thankful.”