he same thing, the same vision, the same ecstasy, or, if he liked,
the same experience?

He did not answer all at once; he seemed to be considering her
objection, as if he owned that it might have weight.

No, he said presently, it was not the same thing. Each experience was
solitary, unique, it had its own incommunicable quality. He rose and
found the earlier poem, and brought it to her that she might see the
difference.

She shook her head; but she had to own that the difference was immense.
It was the difference (so she made it out) between a vision that you
were sure of, and a vision of which you were not so sure. And--yes--it
was more than that; it was as if his genius had suffered incarnation,
and its flame were intenser for having passed through flesh and blood.
It was the incorruptible spirit that cried aloud; but there was no
shrill tenuity in its cry. The thrill it gave her was unlike the shock
that she remembered receiving from the poem of his youth, the shiver
they had all felt, as at the passing by of the supersensual. Her
husband's genius commanded all the splendours, all the tumultuous
energies of sense. His verse rose, and its wings shed the colours of
flame, blue, purple, red, and gold that kindled into white; it dropped
and ran, striking earth with untiring, impetuous feet, it slackened; and
still it throbbed with the heat of a heart driving vehement blood. But,
she insisted, it was the same vision. How could she forget it? Did he
suppose that she had forgotten the moment, four years ago, when
Tanqueray had read the poem to them, and it had flashed on her----?

"Oh yes," he said; "it flashed all right. It flashed on me. But it did
no more. There was always the fear of losing it. The difference is
that--now--there isn't any fear."

She said, "Ah, I remember how afraid you were."

"I was afraid," he said, "of you."

She rose and lifted her arms to him and laid her hand on his shoulders.
He had to stoop to let her do it. So held, he couldn't hope to escape
from her candid, searching eyes.

"You aren't afraid of me now? I haven't made it go? You haven't lost it
through me?"

"You've made it stay."

"Have I? Have I done that for you?"

He drew in his breath with a sob of passion. "Ah--the things you do!"

"None of them matter except that," she said.

She left him with that, turning on the threshold to add, "Why bother,
then, about the other stupid things?"

It was as if she had said to him