sense of cold submersion left him—he seemed to float without an effort. The incident was extraordinary as evidence, and it shed an intenser light. At the last he signed to Dr. Hugh to listen, and, when he was down on his knees by the pillow, brought him very near.
"You've made me think it all a delusion."
"Not your glory, my dear friend," stammered the young man.
"Not my glory—what there is of it! It is glory—to have been tested, to have had our little quality, and cast our little spell. The thing is to have made somebody care. You happen to be crazy, of course, but that doesn't affect the law."
"You're a great success!" said Dr. Hugh, putting into his young voice the ring of a marriage bell.
Dencombe lay taking this in; then he gathered strength to speak once more. "A second chance—that's the delusion. There never was to be but one. We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art."
"If you've doubted, if you've despaired, you've always 'done' it," his visitor subtly argued.
"We've done something or other," Dencombe conceded.
"Something or other is every thing. It's the feasible. It's you!"
