"We shall not be here," I briskly, but fatuously, added. 🔊
"We shall not be here. 🔊 No," he droned, "but the museum will still be just where it is. 🔊 And the reading-room just where it is. 🔊 And people will be able to go and read there." 🔊 He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features. 🔊
I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. 🔊 He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, "You think I haven't minded." 🔊
"Failure?" I said heartily. 🔊 "Failure?" I repeated vaguely. 🔊 "Neglect—yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. 🔊 Of course you haven't been—appreciated. 🔊 But what, then? 🔊 Any artist who—who gives—" 🔊 What I wanted to say was, "Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but the flattery would not out: 🔊in the face of his misery—a misery so genuine and so unmasked—my lips would not say the words. 🔊
And then he said them for me. 🔊 I flushed. 🔊 "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" he asked. 🔊