She had never had so fiercely stimulating a challenge to her personality. In her heart she compared this austere room with the ceremony of the Imperium, and there was no doubt which of the two contained the more vitality. Here in solitude was a man creating that which alone which could justify the elaborate and costly machinery of the great theatre which had been used for almost a generation by the bland and boyish Sir Henry Butcher to exploit his own engaging personality.
Clara was ashamed of the jealousy which had made her snatch Rodd's work out of his hand. It had set his passion raging against her. He who had faced the hostility and indifference of the world all through his ambitious youth was inflamed by the hostility of love which had shaken but not yet uprooted his fierce will—never to compromise, but to adhere to the logic of his vision. The rage in him was intolerable. She said,—
'You don't like it?'
What?'
'My being at the Imperium.'
'It is not for me to like or dislike. I am not the controller of your movements. I would never control the movements of any living creature.'
'Except in your work.'
'They work out their own salvation. They are nothing to do with me, any more than the woman on the stairs.'
'But you love them.'
(He had made them as real to her as they were to himself.)