"I'm not—to me neither the whole thing nor half of it is before me. What exactly are you talking about?" Nick demanded.
"About what you were doing this morning. That's your innermost preference, that's your secret passion."
"A feeble scratch at something serious? Yes, it was almost serious," he said. "But it was an accident, this morning and yesterday: I got on less wretchedly than I intended."
"I'm sure you've immense talent," Julia returned with a dreariness that was almost droll.
"No, no, I might have had. I've plucked it up: it's too late for it to flower. My dear Julia, I'm perfectly incompetent and perfectly resigned."
"Yes, you looked so this morning, when you hung over her. Oh she'll bring back your talent!"
"She's an obliging and even an intelligent creature, and I've no doubt she would if she could," Nick conceded. "But I've received from you all the help any woman's destined to give me. No one can do for me again what you've done."
"I shouldn't try it again; I acted in ignorance. Oh I've thought it all out!" Julia declared. And then with a strange face of anguish resting on his own: "Before it's too late—before it's too late!"
"Too late for what?"
"For you to be free—for you to be free. And for me—for me to be free too. You hate everything I like!" she flashed out. "Don't pretend, don't pretend!" she went on as a sound of protest broke from him.