His character began to unfold itself to her in spasms of intimate revelation. But with each passing glimpse of something new she caught sight also of dim vistas of his soul, which she knew she could never explore. The more she learned the more she felt she could never learn. He was tremendously ambitious. Once he said to her: “If you knew my ambitions, if you knew what I hope to do some day, you’d be amazed, absolutely amazed!” “Should I?” she replied. “I don’t know.... I’m very ambitious myself.” She was pleased that she was incidentally speaking the truth. He looked at her sceptically. “My ambition is to be a great pianist,” she continued quietly. “That,” he replied, “is a thoroughly selfish ambition. It is not as bad as some selfish ambitions, but it is selfish, for all that. Unless you have some other ambition in life besides that, your life will never be really worth while.... Now my ambition has nothing to do with my own greatness or fame. There is no fame--except of a secluded kind--to be got from economics and sociology.... But nevertheless my ambitions are bound up with those things. Quite impersonally.... I mean ...” he was searching for some method of explanation. “In fact,” he added with a trace of bitterness, “I mean something you can’t understand and never could.” It was true: she knew it, but she said with real passion: “How do you know? I _could_, but you never give me a trial! I believe I _could_ understand, anyway!” He smiled, sceptically, but not contemptuously. “Then what do you imagine to be my ambitions?” he asked quietly. And she was floored. In her deepest soul she told herself: I haven’t an idea. The man is an enigma to me. How do I know his ambitions? “I suppose,” she faltered, “you want to benefit humanity and--and----” “And all that sort of thing, eh?” he interrupted sardonically. “You certainly ought to finish up that way.” “Don’t be sarcastic.... Am I right?” “Of course you are right,” he replied whimsically, and left much to be implied. “Then I knew what you didn’t think I knew?” “Oh no, not at all.... My doubts were not of your knowledge.... It is a question of understanding....” “And I am not capable of that, eh? That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” “I’m afraid it is....” There came a pause. An overmastering impulse made her say something which, if she had been wiser, she would have been content to think. “But I read!” she cried passionately, “I ought to be able to understand I ... I sympathize with all those--things ... I read heaps of books--Shaw and Wells and--and----” It was absurd. She knew that what she was saying was quite absurd. But she was not quite prepared for his reply. He stroked his chin reflectively. “And what the devil,” he said deliberately, “has that got to do with it?”