“Is that you, Olivia?” he asked, knowing that it was she. He felt in his heart the gladness which her presence always gave to him. Life could always be noble, he thought, with that beautiful woman in the world.
“Yes, Charles,” she answered. “I’ve been with the wounded. They’re better. How are your wounds?”
“Better, thanks. They’re always better at night.”
She drew up a chair and sat down beside him.
“Charles,” she said, “I want you not to brood. Not to grieve. That’s all over, Charles.”
“Not the dishonour,” he said. “That will never be over.”
“There is no dishonour, Charles. You failed. The only glory is failure. All artists fail. But one sees what they saw. You see that in their failure.”
“Ah. Sometimes.”
“I see that in yours, Charles.”
“Thank you, Olivia.”