She liked the expression, and nodded.
"At present," he went on, "you are like a woman who has a needle and thread and no cloth to work on. She is making patterns in the air, and they vanish."
"No," she said; "they are inside."
"But she can show them to no one else. And—and when you write your books, Theresa, is no one but you to see them?"
Oh no, she would not like that. "But writing books is different. It's like poets."
"What do you mean, my dear?"
"Born, not made, you know."
"I don't think you will find it so simple when you try, and birth is not always easy."
"No, it isn't. I know that. Bessie's sister-in-law——"
He flushed and interrupted with nervous speech. "So you will try to work hard, Theresa."