"Yes," he assented, "it's the great thing."
"The thing" (she pressed it) "for which sacrifices must be made."
Then, lest he should think that she pressed it too hard, that she rubbed it into him, the fact that stung, the fact that his wife's genius was his dangerous rival, standing between them, separating them, slackening the tie; lest he should know how much she knew; lest he should consider her obtuse, as if she thought that he grudged his sacrifices, she faced him with her supreme sincerity.
"You know that you are glad to make them."
She smiled, clear-eyed, shining with her own inspiration. She was the woman who was there to serve him, who knew his need. She came to him in his hour of danger, in his dark, sensual hour, and held his light for him. She held him to himself high.
He was so helpless that he turned to her as if she indeed knew.
"Do you think," he said, "it does mean most to her?"
"You know best," she said, "what it means."
It sank into him. And, as it sank, he said to himself that of course it was so; that he might have known it. Gertrude left it sinking.
He never for a moment suspected that she had rubbed it in.