Only," he added in a moment, "you don't understand me!" And he looked
at him with eyes of such radiant lucidity that one might have said (and
Rowland did almost say so, himself) that it was the fault of one's own
grossness if one failed to read to the bottom of that beautiful soul.
Rowland smiled sadly. "What is it now? Explain."
"Oh, I can't explain!" cried Roderick impatiently, returning to his
work. "I have only one way of expressing my deepest feelings--it 's
this!" And he swung his tool. He stood looking at the half-wrought clay
for a moment, and then flung the instrument down. "And even this half
the time plays me false!"
Rowland felt that his irritation had not subsided, and he himself had no
taste for saying disagreeable things. Nevertheless he saw no sufficient
reason to forbear uttering the words he had had on his conscience from
the beginning. "We must do what we can and be thankful," he said. "And
let me assure you of this--that it won't help you to become entangled
with Miss Light."
Roderick pressed his hand to his forehead with vehemence and then shook
it in the air, despairingly; a gesture that had become frequent with him
since he had been in Italy.
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