‘It is the circumstances that are to blame for that,’ she said, vaguely. ‘You have never had the leisure and the ease that is necessary for great work.’ He laughed a little, and perhaps coloured too, could she have seen it in the flattering soft glow of the shaded light. ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that a man who is overcome by circumstances is rather a poor sort of creature; but we won’t enter into that.’ ‘No, indeed,’ she said; ‘there is no such question before the house, Edward. Now sit down in your own chair and let us talk. How many talks we are to have here! This is the place where we shall discuss everything, and you will tell me how your thoughts are taking shape, and read me a page here and there, and here I’ll bring my little troubles to be calmed down, but never to interrupt anything, you may trust me for that.’ ‘My love,’ he cried, ‘I trust you for everything; but, Carry, I am sadly afraid you are preparing disappointment for yourself. I am by no means sure that I could write anything were I to try; and as for plans----’ ‘Don’t say that, Edward. Don’t you remember how we used to talk in the dark old Kander Thal long ago? You had planned it out all so clearly. I think _I_ could write down the plan, and even the names of the chapters, if you have forgotten. But I am sure you have not forgotten. It has only been suspended for want of time--for want of the books you needed--for want--oh! if I might flatter myself so far?--for want, perhaps, of me; but that’s the vainest thing to say.’ ‘It is the only truth in the whole matter,’ he said--‘for want of you! I think I must have invented that plan on the spot to please you.’ ‘Hush, hush!’ said Carry, putting up her hand to his mouth. ‘Don’t blaspheme. You were full of it, it was a new world to me. First to think that I _knew_ a man with such great things in his mind, then that he would talk to me about it, then that my enthusiasm helped him on a little, that he looked to me for sympathy. Edward,’ she said, with a little nervous laugh, changing colour, and casting down her eyes, ‘I wrote some little verses about it in the old days, but never finished them, and this morning I found them, and scribbled a little more.’ ‘My love, my love!’ he cried, in a troubled tone, in which love, shame, compunction, and even a far-off trembling of ridicule had place. What could he say to this? The romance, the sentiment, the good faith, the enthusiasm, altogether overwhelmed him. He could have laughed, he could have wept, he did not know what to say. How he despised himself for being so much below her expectations, for being, as he said himself, such a poor creature! He changed colour; her moist eyes, her little verses filled him with shame and penitence, yet a rueful amusement too. The verses were very pretty: he did not despise them, it was only himself whom he despised.