"I didn't mean to--at least, I hope I didn't mean to."
"You must not think I do not care for Grace, but Theresa--well, Theresa has all the gifts I wanted when I was young. Have you a towel?"
"What were those? No, no towel; the shirt does. What were those gifts?" he was obliged to ask again.
"You haven't seen her. If you saw her, you would understand. I'll bring a picture of her next time I come. I wish you'd get out, my boy; it's very cold."
"I'm used to it. All the year round I bathe here."
"But, besides, she's clever. She'll make a name."
Clad now in shirt and trousers, Edward Webb approached the pool, and perhaps he thought the silver birches bowed their heads to hear.
"She's going to write." There was a gentle rustling among the trees, but Alexander, showing no more than his wet face and hair, opened his mouth and said nothing for a space. Then, "Was that what you wanted to do?" he asked, and paddled to shore.
"Yes, yes, it was my ambition. But I had no time. It was a struggle to live, and I married. Only lately----"
He bowed his head. "I have told no one else," he said, and seemed to wonder at himself.
"No, no. You see, Theresa is very young. But she shows signs. I have seen little poems."
"No. I'm--I'm afraid not. I cannot think that I ought to do it. It's self-indulgence, I believe, but if I have given the palest spark to Theresa, if she----"
"It was you who gave me Keats," Alexander said. "Have you had anything printed?"
"I haven't tried. What does it matter? It's the doing of it, you see. I've never found Theresa care for anything that was not good--strange in a child, I think. Significant. She has unerring taste, if I am any judge."
"I wonder, would you let me see your things? I've never seen anything but printed stuff. I'd like to see it fresh from a man."
Edward Webb flushed deeply. "I should be very grateful for your criticism."
"To oblige me, please. I--I haven't had the benefit of your education. I had to leave school early, and I know but little of the classics. I thought once of pursuing them, but there is so little energy when one's work is done--exhausting, uncongenial work. I know no scholars; in fact, I know few men, and those I meet are--are like myself. I want to give Theresa more than I had."