“About your book? Oh yes. Mr. Brandreth spoke to me about it. I thought you would like to tell him.”
“Thank you,” said Ray. He was silent for a moment. She stood against the pale light of one of the windows, a shadowy outline, and he felt as if they were two translated spirits meeting there exterior to the world and all its interests; he made a mental note of his impression for use some time. But now he said: “I thought I should like to tell him, too. But after all, I’m not so sure. I’m not like you, Peace. And I suppose I’m punished for my egotism in the very hour of my triumph. It isn’t like a triumph; it’s like—nothing. I’ve looked forward to this so long—I’ve counted on it so much—I’ve expected it to be like having the world in my hand. But if I shut my hand, it’s empty.”
He knew that he was appealing to her for comfort, and he expected her to respond as she did.
“That’s because you don’t realize it yet. When you do, it will seem the great thing that it is.”
“Do you think it’s a great thing?”
“As great as any success can be.”
“Do you think it will succeed?”
“Mr. Brandreth thinks it will. He’s very hopeful about it.”
“Sometimes I wish it would fail. I don’t believe it deserves to succeed. I’m ashamed of it in places. Have I any right to let him foist it on the public if I don’t perfectly respect it? You wouldn’t if it were yours.”
He wished her to deny that it was bad in any part, but she did not. She merely said: “I suppose that’s the way our work always seems to us when it’s done. There must be a time when we ought to leave what we’ve done to others; it’s for them, not for ourselves; why shouldn’t they judge it?”