`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.'

`Minded what, Soames?'

`Neglect. Failure.'

`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.

`How did you know?'