"How?"
Clad now in shirt and trousers, Edward Webb approached the pool, and perhaps he thought the silver birches bowed their heads to hear.
"She's going to write." There was a gentle rustling among the trees, but Alexander, showing no more than his wet face and hair, opened his mouth and said nothing for a space. Then, "Was that what you wanted to do?" he asked, and paddled to shore.
"Yes, yes, it was my ambition. But I had no time. It was a struggle to live, and I married. Only lately——"
"You've been doing it?"
He bowed his head. "I have told no one else," he said, and seemed to wonder at himself.
"Not Theresa?"
"No, no. You see, Theresa is very young. But she shows signs. I have seen little poems."
"Is it prose you write?"
"No. I'm—I'm afraid not. I cannot think that I ought to do it. It's self-indulgence, I believe, but if I have given the palest spark to Theresa, if she——"