"It is, indeed. Did you look at the dates? Did you notice that all those later things were written either at Harmouth, or after?"
"I did."
"And didn't that strike you as significant? Didn't you draw any conclusions?"
"I drew the conclusion that—that the poet I knew had worked out his own salvation."
"Exactly—the poet you knew. Didn't it occur to you that he might never have done it, if you hadn't known him?"
He looked at her steadily. The colour on her face had deepened, but her eyes, as they met his, were grave and meditative. She seemed to be considering the precise meaning of his words before she answered.
"No, I didn't."
"What, never? Think. Don't you remember how you used to help me?"
She shook her head. "I only remember that I meant to have helped you. And I was very sorry because I couldn't. But I see now how absurd it was of me; and how unnecessary."
He knew that she was thinking now of her private secretary.