"Because I wasn't doing it. It was done ages ago."
"It's my fault. I ought to have known. I did know there was something. I ought to have attended to it and found out what it was."
He began walking up and down the room, turning on her again and again, making himself more and more excited.
"That translation of the Bacchae—what made you think of doing it like that?"
"I'd been reading Walt Whitman—It showed me you could do without rhyme. I knew it must sound as if it was all spoken—chanted—that they mustn't sing. Then I thought perhaps that was the way to do it."
"Yes. Yes. It is the way to do it. The only way…. You see, that's what my Euripides book's about. The very thing I've been trying to ram down people's throats, for years. And all the time you were doing it—down here—all by yourself—for fun … I wish I'd known … What are you going to do about it?"
"I didn't think anything could be done."
He sat down to consider that part of it.
* * * * *
He was going to get it published for her.