"It will!"
She studied him thoughtfully for a minute or more. "Something has been occurring to me and I'd like to talk to you about it." She rose. "But I must be going. Won't you walk with me to the car, and let me talk on the way?"
A minute later they were in the street, from which the day had all but faded and into which the shop-windows and above them the tier on tier of home-windows, were stretching their meagre substitute. David's blood was leaping through him, and in him were the lightness and the all-conquering strength of youth. The crisp winter air that thrust its sting into many of the stream of home-coming workers, tinglingly pricked him with the joy of living.
"Have you thought again of writing?" she asked.
"About as much as a man who has leaped from a house-top to try his wings, thinks again of flying."
"I am speaking seriously. If the impulse to write should return, would you have time for writing?"
"I think I could manage three or four hours a day."
"Then why not try?"
"The ground where one alights is so hard, Miss Chambers!"
"But perhaps you did not soar the other time because you had over-worn your wings. Perhaps they have grown strong and developed during their rest. Many of us used to believe they would carry you far up. Why not try? You have nothing to lose. And if you succeed—then the dream you have told me of will begin to come true."