Channing said that he did not object to that. “Very well, then,” said Thyrsis. “I simply tell you that you have missed the point of my trouble. There’s nothing the matter with me but poverty and lack of opportunity; and there’s nothing else the matter with my wife. We’re doing our best, and it’s the simple fact that we’ve endured and dared more than anybody we’ve ever met. And that’s all there is to it.” It was evident that Channing was deeply hurt. He turned the conversation to other matters, and pretty soon they got up and strolled on. When they came near to the house, he went off to see his chauffeur, and Thyrsis stood watching him, and pondering over the episode. It was the same thing that had happened to him in the city; it was the thing that would be happening to him all the time. He saw that however wretched he might be with Corydon, he would always take her part against the world. Whatever her faults might be, they were not such as the world could judge. Rather would he make it the test of a person’s character, that they should understand and appreciate her, in spite of her lack of that superficial thing called culture--the ability to rattle off opinions about any subject under the sun. So it was that loyalty to Corydon held him fast. So her temperament was his law, and her needs were his standards; and day by day he must become more like her, and less like himself! Section 4. He returned to the house, entering by the rear door. The baby was lying in the room asleep, and out upon the piazza, he could hear Corydon and Mrs. Channing. Corydon was speaking, in her intense voice. “The trouble with me,” she was saying, “is that I have no confidence! Other women are sure of themselves--they are self-contained, serene, satisfied.” “But why shouldn’t you be that way?” Thus Mrs. Channing. “I aim too high,” said Corydon. “I want too much. I defeat myself.” “Yes,” said the other, “but why--” “It’s been the circumstances of all my life! I’ve been defeated--thwarted--repressed! Everything drives me back into myself. There is nothing I can _do_--I can only endure and suffer and wait. So all the influences in my life are negative-- ‘I was sick with the Nay of life-- With my lonely soul’s refrain!’” “What is that you are quoting?” asked Mrs. Channing. “It’s from a poem I wrote,” said Corydon. “Oh, you write poetry?” “I couldn’t say that,” was the reply. “I have no technique--I never studied anything about it.” “But you try sometimes?” “I find it helps me,” said Corydon--“once in a great while I find lines in my mind; and I put them together, so that I can say them over, and remind myself of things.” “I see,” said Mrs. Channing. “Tell me the poem you quoted.” “I--I don’t believe you’d think much of it,” said Corydon, hesitating. “I never expected anybody-- “I’d be interested to hear it,” declared her visitor.