Far below them, to the left, there were lights, stationary and moving,
and sometimes the clang of a tramcar bell reached them with its harsh
music: the slim line of the bridge, with here and there a dimly
burning light, was like a spangled thread. The sound of footsteps and
voices came to them from the road behind the hill.
'But after all,' Charles said more clearly, 'it doesn't matter about
being acclaimed. It's just like making music for deaf people: the
music's there; the music's there. And so it doesn't matter very much
whether you love me. It's one's weakness that wants that, one's
loneliness. I can love you just the same, perhaps better; it's the
audience that spoils things. I should think it does!'
'So you're quite happy.'
'Not quite,' he answered, 'but I have something to do, something I can
do, too. Music--no, I'm not good enough. I'm no more than an amateur,
but in this I can be supreme.'
'You can't be sure of that,' she said acutely. 'If you wrote a poem
you might think it was perfect, but you wouldn't absolutely know till
you'd tried it on other people. So you can't be sure about love.'
'You mightn't be,' he said with a touch of scorn. 'You may depend on
other people, but I don't.'
She made a small sound of scorn. 'No, you'll never know whether you're
doing this wonderful work of yours well or not because,' she said,
cruelly exultant, 'it won't be tested.'
'Ah, but it might be.
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