Page:The Novels and Tales of Henry James, Volume 1 (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907).djvu/386

 she seemed to wonder: "Some one to share it with? Oh yes, I should like it immensely."

To this she made no rejoinder; but presently she asked: "Why don't you write a book?"

Rowland laughed—this time more freely. "A book! What book should I write?"

"A history; something about art or antiquities."

"I 've neither the learning nor the talent."

She made no attempt to contradict him; she simply said she had supposed otherwise. "You ought, at any rate," she continued in a moment, "to do some thing for yourself."

"For myself? I should have supposed that if ever a man seemed to live for himself—!"

"I don't know how it seems," she interrupted "to careless observers. But we know—we know that you 've lived—a great deal for us." Her voice trembled slightly, and she brought out the last words with a little jerk.

"She has had that speech on her conscience," thought Rowland; "she has been thinking she owed it to me, and it seemed to her that now was her time to make it and have done with it."

She went on in a way which confirmed these reflexions, speaking with due solemnity. "You ought to be made to know very well what we all feel. Mrs. Hudson tells me she has told you what she feels. Of course Roderick has expressed himself. I 've been wanting to thank you too; I do, most sincerely."

Rowland made no answer; his face at this moment might have resembled the tragic mask more than the 352