He started to speak. He could not find his voice.
She went on presently in that quiet, monotonous voice which had been hers for so many years.
"You left me alone; I wouldn't have complained; I wouldn't complain now if you had some excuse for it. It all made me different. There's no use in telling you how; you couldn't understand. But I got to feeling things I'd never felt before; and then I saw things. And after a while I found I could bring those things to me. And that night, the first night we moved in here—"
He interrupted her in spite of himself.
"What of that night? What?"
"That night when you were standing there at the window I got down on my knees and prayed. I brought something to you that night. And you called the genius yours." She broke off and was silent for a second. "I brought it to you because I wanted you to be great. I thought with all that energy of yours for writing that if it could work through you, you'd be big. But you were too small for it! You tried to make it a thing of your own. And I've held on to it. For six years I've kept it here with you; and now it's going. I'm letting it go back again. You're too small; you can't ever be anything but just—you!"
He walked over to his desk, and sank down into the arm chair.
"I don't—know—what—you're—talking—about."
"You do! And if you don't, why do you look out of the window there every night? Why d'you wait for it to come, before you start to write?"
His exclamation was involuntary.