What a help and stimulus you must be to him!'
'I,' she said, quite flabbergasted; 'I only wish it were true--again.'
The last word slipped out by accident; she had not meant it.
But Rogers ignored it, even if he noticed it.
'I never can help him in his work. I don't understand it enough. I
don't understand it at all.' She was ashamed to hedge with this man.
She looked him straight in the eye.
'But he feels your sympathy,' was his reply. 'It's not always
necessary to understand. That might only muddle him. You help by
wishing, feeling, sympathising--believing.'
'You really think so?' she asked simply. 'What wonderful thoughts you
have I One has read, of course, of wives who inspired their husbands'
work; but it seemed to belong to books rather than to actual life.'
Rogers looked at her thoughtful, passionate face a moment before he
answered. He realised that his words would count with her. They
approached delicate ground. She had an absurd idea of his importance
in their lives; she exaggerated his influence; if he said a wrong
thing its effect upon her would be difficult to correct.
'Well,' he said, feeling mischief in him, 'I don't mind telling _you_
that I should never have understood that confused idea of his story
but for one thing.'
'What was that?' she asked, relieved to feel more solid ground at
last.
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