“It isn’t easy for them to understand,” said Thyrsis. “They have never been poor—”
“That woman talks about the Greek love of beauty! What sacrifice has she ever made for beauty—what agony has she ever dared for it? And yet she can prattle about it—the phrases roll from her! She’s been educated—polished—finished! She’s been taught just what to say! And I haven’t been taught, and so she despises me!”
“It’s deeper than that, my dear,” he said. “You have something in you that she would hate instinctively.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve told you before, dearest. It’s genius, I think.
“Genius! But what use is it to me, if it is? It only unfits me for life. It eats me up, it destroys me!”
“Some day,” he said, “you will find a way to express it. It will come, never fear.—But now, dear, be sensible. The ground is wet, and if you sit there, you will surely be laid up with rheumatism.”
He lifted her up; but she was not to be diverted. Suddenly she turned, and caught him by the arms. “Thyrsis!” she cried. “Tell me! Do you blame me as she does? Do you think I’m weak and incompetent?”
Whatever answer he might have been inclined to make, he saw in her wild eyes that only one answer was to be thought of. “Certainly not, my dear!” he said, quickly. “How could you ask me such a question?”
“Oh, tell me! tell me!” she exclaimed. And so he had to go on, and sing the song of their love to her, and pour out balm upon her wounded spirit.