It was a disturbing explanation that seemed to force itself upon Coltfoot,—that, in Annan, there was nothing creative except through the vitality of this girl. Or that the living germ was in her; and that Annan was merely the medium for transplantation—adequate soil skilfully mixed for culture of seeds developed in the entity of Eris.
He said one day to Annan: “How far in any creative work Eris would go if she had the chance, I couldn’t prophesy.... I saw some of the continuity of that last Smull picture she made——”
Annan looked up sharply.
“—It is a noble piece of creative acting,” said Coltfoot in a deliberate voice.
After a silence Annan said: “She shall have every chance in the world.”
“The trouble is, with such a girl, that she is likely to lend herself to her husband’s career.... And ignore her own.... There is in her a breadth of generosity I have seen very seldom, Barry,—perhaps never before.... And she is very much in love.”
“Do you suppose I’d accept any such sacrifice, Mike?” demanded Annan impatiently.
“You may have no option. She is a curious girl. Enormously capable. Perfectly normal. Intensely human.... She is the balanced type which civilisation is supposed to breed. And seldom does. That is why the ordinary becomes extraordinary; why symmetry is such a rarity.... We’re a twisted lot, Barry. We never notice it until we see somebody who not only was born straight, but who has continued to grow that way.”