"All right."
He shut the door.
"Don't let us speak for a moment," she whispered.
She was sitting now on the deep sofa just beyond the writing-table. Claude stood quite still. And in the silence which followed her words he strove to realize whether he would be able to work in the little room. Would anything come to him here? His eyes rested on Anchises, crouched on the back of his son, on the burning city of Troy. He felt confused, strange, and then dépaysé. That word alone meant what he felt just then. Ah, the little house with the one big room looking out on to the scrap of garden, yellow-haired Fan, Harriet discreet unto dumbness, Mrs. Searle with her scraps of wisdom—he with his freedom!
The room was a cage, wire bars everywhere. Never could he work in it!
"It is good for work, isn't it, Claudie? Even poor little I can feel that. What wonderful things you are going to do here. As wonderful as—" She checked herself abruptly.
"As what?" he asked, striving to force an interest, to banish his secret desperation.
"I won't tell you now. Some day—in a year, two years—I'll tell you."
Her eyes shone. He thought they looked almost greedy.