work it will be a good thing—I wasn't seeing enough of life to be able to . . ."
"Oh, of course not," he answered—"it'll be a good thing. You must have been having a pretty bad time."
It struck me as abominably unfair. I hadn't taken up with the Hour because I was tired of having a bad time, but for other reasons: because I had felt my soul being crushed within me.
"You're mistaken," I said. And I explained. He answered. "Yes, yes," but I fancied that he was adding to himself—"They all say that." I grew more angry. Lea's opinion formed, to some extent, the background of my life. For many years I had been writing quite as much to satisfy him as to satisfy myself, and his coldness chilled me. He thought that my heart was not in my work, and I did not want Lea to think that of me. I tried to explain as much to him—but it was difficult, and he gave me no help.
I knew there had been others that he had fostered, only to see them, in the end, drift into the back-wash. And now he thought I was going too . . .
[71]
