He began walking up and down the room, turning on her again and again, making himself more and more excited. "That translation of the _Bacchae_--what made you think of doing it like that?" "I'd been reading Walt Whitman--It showed me you could do without rhyme. I knew it must sound as if it was all spoken--chanted--that they mustn't sing. Then I thought perhaps that was the way to do it." "Yes. Yes. It is the way to do it. The only way.... You see, that's what my Euripides book's about. The very thing I've been trying to ram down people's throats, for years. And all the time you were doing it--down here--all by yourself--for fun ... I wish I'd known ... What are you going to do about it?" "I didn't think anything could be done." He sat down to consider that part of it. * * * * * He was going to get it published for her. He was going to write the Introduction. "And--the other things?" "Oh, well, that's another matter. There's not much of it that'll stand." He knew. He would never say more or less than he meant. Not much of it that would stand. Now that she knew, it was extraordinary how little she minded. "Still, there are a few things. They must come out first. In the spring. Then the _Bacchae_ in the autumn. I want it to be clear from the start that you're a poet translating; not the other way on." He walked home with her, discussing gravely how it would be done. IV. It had come without surprise, almost without excitement; the quiet happening of something secretly foreseen, present to her mind as long as she could remember. "I always meant that this should happen: something like this." Now that it had happened she was afraid, seeing, but not so clearly, what would come afterwards: something that would make her want to leave Morfe and Mamma and go away to London and know the people Richard Nicholson had told her about, the people who would care for what she had done; the people who were doing the things she cared about. To talk to them; to hear them talk. She was afraid of wanting that more than anything in the world. She saw her fear first in Mamma's eyes when she told her. And there was something else. Something to do with Richard Nicholson. Something she didn't want to think about. Not fear exactly, but a sort of uneasiness when she thought about him. His mind really was the enormous, perfect crystal she had imagined. It had been brought close to her; she had turned it in her hand and seen it flash and shine. She had looked into it and seen beautiful, clear things in it: nothing that wasn't beautiful and clear. She was afraid of wanting to look at it again when it wasn't there. Because it had made her happy she might come to want it more than anything in the world. In two weeks it would be gone. She would want it and it would not be there. V.