"No. I betrayed his innocent confidence sufficiently in showing you his play. I can't tell you his name."
"After all, his name doesn't matter."
"No, it doesn't matter. Very likely you'll hear enough of it some day. You haven't told me what you think of him."
"I don't know what I think—But then, I don't know him."
"No," he said, roused to interest by her hesitation, "you don't know him. That's the beauty of it."
She gave the manuscript back into his hands. "Take him away. He makes me feel uncomfortable."
"To tell the truth, Lucy, he makes me feel uncomfortable, too."
"Why?"
"Well, when you think you've got hold of a genius, and you take him up and stake your reputation on him—and all the time you can't be sure whether it's a spark of the divine fire or a mere flash in the pan. It happens over and over again. The burnt critic dreads the divine fire."
His eyes were fixed on the title page as if fascinated by the words, Helen in Leuce.