"Don't speak of your past if you would rather not," he said; "leave it for the present. When we are old friends it'll be time enough. I'll tell you about myself and how I came to think of my great work." "The work that you mentioned just now?" she asked, curiously moved by the sudden solemnity of his tone. Breathing deeply, he stretched out his clenched fists, and his eyes burned into space. "Yes; the work for which I live ... the work that is my pillar of strength, my goal, my future--my everything ... that stands for father, mother, brother, friend, and love.... For _it_, this wine was vintaged, this hour created, and you yourself, dear gracious, beautiful one, with your delicate infinite charm, and your two begging hands, which really were made for giving." "I thought you were going to talk about your work," she said softly. "I am talking about it--of that and that alone. I want you to know how all that I live and love is part of it. For instance, think of the thousands of times the Annunciation has been painted, sculptured, and sung, and how I have toiled and moiled over the subject, and yet now at this moment when I see your great wistful 'Mary-eyes' fixed on me in half-humble, half-astonished questioning, I feel that the last word has not been said, the highest rung of knowledge has yet to be reached.... So you see how everything must be made to serve my work." "Are you a poet?" she asked, quite carried away. He shook his head, smiling. "I am not a poet, I am not an artist, neither am I an historian nor a psychologist; but I have to be all and a great deal more besides, for my work demands it."