She had risen and had unlocked a drawer in the writing-table near her, and taken out the thick pile of manuscript. He noticed that she detached from it some loose pencilled sheets and put them back into the drawer. She seated herself in her old place and signed to him to take the low chair beside her. He approached her (for the first time) without nervousness or embarrassment; for he saw his _Helen_ lying on her knees and knew that she held his dreams in her soul. He had made her acquainted with the best and highest in him, and she would judge him by that alone. In her sight his genius would stand apart from all in him that was jarring and obscure. It at least was untouched by the accident of his birth, the baseness of his false position. "I sent for you," said she, "because I wanted to talk to you about this, while it is all fresh in my mind. I thought we could talk better here." "Thanks. I want awfully to know what you have to say." "I can't have anything to say that you don't know already." "I--I know nothing." (What a hypocrite he felt as he said it!) "Nor I. As far as knowledge goes I haven't any right to speak. Only--the other evening, you expressed such absolute disbelief in yourself--" "I was perfectly sincere." "I know you were. That's what made me believe in you." (Well then, if _that_ was what made her believe in him he would continue to express disbelief in himself.) She paused. "It's the little men, isn't it, the men of talent, that are always so self-conscious and so sure? I don't know much about it, but it seems to me that genius isn't bound to be like that. It might be so different from your ordinary self that you couldn't be aware of it in the ordinary way. There would always be a sort of divine uncertainty about it." "I'm afraid I don't agree with you. All the great geniuses have been not only aware of themselves, but most uncommonly certain." "Still, their genius may have been the part of themselves they understood least. If they had tried to understand it, they would have doubted too." "There's something in that. You mean genius understands everything--except itself? "I think that's what I meant." "Yes; but whether genius understands itself or not, whatever it does, you see, it doesn't doubt." "Doesn't it? Have you read Keats' letters? _He_ doubted." "Only when he was in love with Fanny Brawne." He paused abruptly. He was seized by an idea, a rushing irresistible idea that lifted him off his feet and whirled him suddenly into a region of light, tumultuous and profound. Keats was in love when he doubted. Could that be the explanation of his own misgiving? "That," he said hastily, "that's another thing altogether. Any way, if you don't believe in yourself, you'll have some difficulty in making other people believe in you." "And if other people _do_ believe in you, before you believe in yourself?"