“No matter how poorly it is done,” he persisted, “don’t you see anything in it?—in the thought of it, I mean?”
She shook her head.
“No, it is so different from anything I have read. I read Maeterlinck and understand him—”
“His mysticism, you understand that?” Martin flashed out.
“Yes, but this of yours, which is supposed to be an attack upon him, I don’t understand. Of course, if originality counts—”
He stopped her with an impatient gesture that was not followed by speech. He became suddenly aware that she was speaking and that she had been speaking for some time.
“After all, your writing has been a toy to you,” she was saying. “Surely you have played with it long enough. It is time to take up life seriously—our life, Martin. Hitherto you have lived solely your own.”
“You want me to go to work?” he asked.
“Yes. Father has offered—”
“I understand all that,” he broke in; “but what I want to know is whether or not you have lost faith in me?”