She said (and I could feel before she said it, that it was what she was going to say): "Yes, I've told Hilton what I think. And he agrees with me, too. Absolutely."
"What?" And Severn laughed. "What's that? Do you agree with her? Do you agree that we should all do nothing and say nothing and let Karelsky go on his way rejoicing?"
And the extraordinary thing is that I heard myself answering: "Well, you know, there is something in what she says."
It astonished me; it was as if something sudden and impulsive jerked me into position—into position by her side. I even began to argue the matter—at first as an impromptu defender of something I wasn't very certain about, but later on with conviction and even enthusiasm. I think I made an impression on Severn, for he heard me very attentively. I assured him that, from my own knowledge, Terry was quite ignorant of the fact that he had been duped. "Not only that, but he's actually delighted—because he sees that the work he did is really of value. Probably the idea that he has any proprietary right to the results of his own work has never occurred to him."
"And you don't want it to occur to him?"
"Well, as things are, I feel that I don't. The thought that's he's scored such a success has worked a miracle with him, and one's always rather afraid of a relapse after a miracle."
"Do you think he can possibly go on without knowing?"
"There's an odd chance that he might."
He made a grimace. "All these arguments, you know, Hilton, are June's. I've heard them over and over again during the past week.... Haven't you anything new—something you've only just thought of—something bright and original—anything—anything—I don't care a damn what it is so long as I haven't heard it before?"
I thought he was sneering until I saw his eyes. They were full of a curious, child-like eagerness—an eagerness that almost tore through them. Something new—something bright and original—something he hadn't heard before ... it was his heart-cry always.