"It's natural," she pleaded.
"Natural? It's one of the most unnatural marriages I've ever come across. It's a crime against nature for a man like Tanqueray to have taken that poor little woman—who is nature pure and simple—and condemn her to——"
She drew back visibly. "I know. He doesn't see it," she said.
"He doesn't see anything. He doesn't even know she's there. How can he? His genius runs to flesh and blood, and he hasn't room for any more of it outside his own imagination. That's where you are with your great realists."
She gazed at him, astonished, admiring. This visionary, this poet so estranged from flesh and blood, had put his finger on the fact.
"You mean," she said, "a visionary would see more?"
He shrugged his shoulders at her reference.
"He would have more room," he said, "that would be all. He could at any rate afford to take more risks."
They were silent again.
"I believe," he said presently, "somebody's coming. I shall have to go."