with ...
you know who I mean. It's inevitable--the comparison must be thrust on
you every day of your life. But does that, do you think, make it any
the easier for me?"

As the gist of what he was trying to say was borne in upon her, Louise
winced. Her face lost its tired expression, and grew hard. "You are
breaking your word," she said, in a tone she had never before used to
him. "You promised me once, the past should never be mentioned between
us."

"I'm not blind, Louise," he went on, as though she had not spoken. "Nor
am I in a mood to-night to make myself any illusions. The remembrance
of what he was--he was never doubtful of himself, was he?--must
always--HAS always stood between us, while I have racked my brains to
discover what it was. To-night it came over me like a flash that it was
he--that he ... he spoiled you utterly for anyone else; made it
impossible for you to care for anyone who wasn't made of the same stuff
as he was. It would never have occurred to him, would it, to torment
you and make you suffer for his own failure? For the very good reason
that he never was a failure. Oh, I haven't the least doubt what a sorry
figure I must cut beside him!"

The unhappy words came out slowly, and seemed to linger in the air.
Louise did not break the pause that followed, and by her silence,
assented to what he said. She still stood motionless beside the piano.

"Or tell me," Maurice cried abruptly, with a ray of hope; "tell me the
truth about it all, for once. Was it mere exaggeration, or was he
really worth so much more than all the rest of us? Of course he could
play--I know that--but so can many a fool. But all the other part of
it--his incredible talent, or luck in everything he touched--was it
just report, or was it really something else?--Tell me."

"He was a genius," she answered, very coldly and distinctly; and her
voice warned him once more that he was trespassing on ground to which
he had no right. But he was too excited to take the warning.

"A genius!" he echoed. "He was a genius! Yes, what did I tell you? Your
very words imply a comparison as you say them. For I?--what am I? A
miserable bungler, a wretched dilettant--or have you another word for
it? Oh, never mind--don't be afraid to say it!--I'm not sensitive
tonight. I can bear to hear your real opinion of me; for it could not
possibly be lower than my own. Let us get at the truth for once, by all
means!--But what I want to know," he cried a m