.. that unrelieved hopeless misery that only a woman can suffer. She used to tell me stories, and I used to make up little tunes about them, and about anything. The great success," he laughed, "was, I remember, to a dandelion.... I can remember so well the way Mother pursed up her lips as she leaned over the writing desk.... She was very tall, and as it was dark in our old sitting room, had to lean far over to see.... She used to spend hours making beautiful copies of tunes I made up. My mother is the only person who has ever really had any importance in my life.... But I lack technical training terribly."
"Do you think it is so important?" said Genevieve, leaning towards him to make herself heard above the clatter of the train.
"Perhaps it isn't. I don't know."
"I think it always comes sooner or later, if you feel intensely enough."
"But it is so frightful to feel all you want to express getting away beyond you. An idea comes into your head, and you feel it grow stronger and stronger and you can't grasp it; you have no means to express it. It's like standing on a street corner and seeing a gorgeous procession go by without being able to join it, or like opening a bottle of beer and having it foam all over you without having a glass to pour it into."
Genevieve burst out laughing.
"But you can drink from the bottle, can't you?" she said, her eyes sparkling.
"I'm trying to," said Andrews.
"Here we are. There's the cathedral. No, it's hidden," cried Genevieve.
They got to their feet. As they left the station, Andrews said: "But after all, it's only freedom that matters. When I'm out of the army!..."
"Yes, I suppose you are right... for you that is. The artist should be free from any sort of entanglement."
"I don't see what difference there is between an artist and any other sort of workman," said Andrews savagely.
"No, but look."
From the square where they stood, above the green blur of a little park, they could see the cathedral, creamy yellow and rust color, with the sober tower and the gaudy tower,
