"I'm glad you couldn't work in the little room. If you had been able to we should never have had this."
"And," she continued, "I feel this is the beginning of great things for you. I feel as if, without meaning to, I'd taken you away from your path, as if now I understood better. But I don't think it was quite my fault if I didn't understand. Claudie, do you know you're terribly reserved?"
"Am I?" he said.
He shifted in his chair, took the cigar out of his mouth, and put it back again.
"Well, aren't you? Two whole months, and you never told me you couldn't work."
"I hated to, after you'd taken so much trouble with that room."
"I know. But, still, directly you did tell me, I perfectly understood. I"—she spoke with distinct pressure—"I am a wife who can understand. Don't you remember that night at Jacques Sennier's opera?"
"Yes."
"Didn't I understand then? At the end when they were all applauding? I've got your letter, the letter you wrote that night. I shall always keep it. Such a burning letter, saying I had inspired you, that my love and belief had made you feel as if you could do something great if you changed your life, if you lived with me. You remember?"