"His will is stronger than mine," she said. "And his genius is stronger than his will."
"You overrate the importance of it. What does it matter if he never writes another line?"
It seemed to her that he charged him with futility, that he echoed—and in this hour!—the voice of the world that tried to make futile everything he did.
"It doesn't matter to you," she said. "You never understood his genius; you never cared about it."
"Do you mean to tell me that you—you care about it more than you care about him? Upon my word, I don't know what you women are made of."
"What could I do?" she said. "I had to use my own judgment."
"You had not. You had to use mine."
He paused impressively.
"It's no use, my child, fighting against the facts."
To Henry Laura was a little angry child, crying over the bitter dose of life. He had got to make her take it.