He said no more. Years ago, when he had done nothing, he had talked excitedly and arrogantly about his work; now that he had done what he had set out to do he was reserved, impassive and very humble.
"Do Jerrold and Colin know?" she said.
"Not yet. You're the first."
"Dear Eliot, you did know I'd be glad."
"It's nice of you to care."
Of course she cared. She was glad to think that he had that supreme satisfaction to make up for the cruelty of her refusal to care more. Perhaps, she thought, he wouldn't have had it if he had had her. He would have been torn in two; he would have had to give himself twice over. She felt that he didn't love her more than he loved his science, and science exacted an uninterrupted and undivided service. One life hadn't room enough for two such loves, and he might not have done so much if she had been there, calling back his thoughts, drawing his passion to herself.
"What are you going to do next?" she said.
"Next I'm going off for a month's holiday. To Sicily—Taormina. I've been overworking and I'm a bit run down. How about Colin?"
"He's better. Heaps better. He soon got over that relapse he had when I was away in February."
"You mean he got over it when you came back."