"Don't catch it."
"I shan't. For I've got to tell you how much I admire your work. I'm not going to ask how you do it, for I don't suppose you know yourself."
"I don't."
"I'm not even going to ask myself. I simply accept the miracle."
"If it's miracles you want, look at George Tanqueray."
He said nothing. And now she thought of it, he had not looked at George Tanqueray. He had looked at nobody but her. It was the look of a man who had never known a moment's uncertainty as to the thing he wanted. It was a look that stuck.
"Why aren't you at his feet?" she said.
"Because I'm not drawn—to my knees—by brutal strength and cold, diabolical lucidity."
"Oh," she cried, "you haven't read him."
"I've read all of him. And I prefer you."