It was the first time she had interrupted him. She had sat and followed his restless movements with a look of apprehension. A certain board in the floor creaked when he trod on it, and she found herself listening, each time, for the creaking of this board. She was sorry for him, but she could not attach the importance he did to his assumed want of success, nor was she able to subdue the feeling of distaste with which his doubtings inspired her. It was so necessary, too, this outpouring; she had never felt curious about the side of his nature which was not the lover's side. Tonight, it became clear to her that she would have preferred to remain in ignorance of it. And besides, what he said was so palpable, so undeniable, that she could not understand his dragging the matter to the surface: she had never thought of him but as one of the many honest workers, who swell the majority, and are not destined to rise above the crowd. She had not dreamed of his considering himself in another light, and it was painful to her now, to find that he had done so. To put an end to such embarrassing confidences, she went over to him, and, with her hands on his shoulders, her face upturned, said all the consoling words she could think of, to make him forget. They had never yet failed in their effect. But to-night too much was at work in Maurice, for him to be influenced by them. He kissed her, and touched her cheek with his hand, then began anew; and she moved away, with a slight impatience, which she did not try to conceal.
"You brood too much, Maurice ... and you exaggerate things, too. What if every one took himself so seriously?—and talked of failure because on a single occasion he didn't do himself justice?"
"It's more than that with me, dear.—But it's a bad habit, I know—not that I really mean to take myself too seriously; but all my life I have been forced to worry about things, and to turn them over."
"It's unhealthy always to be looking into yourself. Let things go more, and they'll carry you with them."
He took her hands. "What wise-sounding words! And I'm in the wrong, I know, as usual. But, in this case, it's impossible not to worry. What happened this evening seems a trifle to you, and no doubt would to every one else, too. But I had made a kind of touchstone of it; it was to help to decide the future—that hideously uncertain future of ours! I believe now, as far as I'm concerned, I don't care whether I ever come to anything or not. Of course, I should rather have been a success—we all would!—but caring for you has swallowed up the ridiculous notions I once had. For your sake—it's you I torment myself about. WHAT is to become of us?"
"If that's all, Maurice! Something will turn up, I'm sure it will. Have a little patience, and faith in luck ... or fate ... or whatever you like to call it."
"That's a woman's way of looking at things."
He was conscious of speaking somewhat unkindly; but he was hurt by her lack of sympathy. Instead, however, of smoothing things over, he was impelled, by an unconquerable impulse, to disclose himself still further. "Besides, that's not all," he said, and avoided her eyes. "There's something else, and I may just as well make a clean breast of it. It's not only that the future is every bit as shadowy to-night as it has always been: I haven't advanced it by an inch. But I feel to-night that if I could have been what I once hoped to be—no, how shall I put it? You know, dear, from the very beginning there has been something wrong, a kind of barrier between us hasn't there? How often I've tried to find out what it is! Well, to-night I seem to know. If I were not such an out-and-out mediocrity, if I had really been able to achieve something, you would care for me—yes, that's it!—as you can't possibly care now. You would have to; you wouldn't be able to help yourself."
Her first impulsive denial died on her lips; as he continued to speak, she seemed to feel in his words an intention to wound her, or, at least, to accuse her of want of love. When she spoke, it was in a cool voice, as though she were on her guard against being touched too deeply.
"That has nothing whatever to do with it," she said. "It's you yourself, Maurice, I care for—not what you can or can't do."