But every human art nowadays is so complicated that none of us can get on without using the great stores of experience others have laid up for us.' It was all out now.

He had spoken his inmost mind.

They had stopped again, and she was looking at him intently; it struck him that he could not possibly have said what he had been saying unless he had been led on by an instinctive dependence upon a great magnanimity of nature in her.
And then the next moment the strange opposites the matter held in it flashed across him.

He saw the crowded theatre, the white figure on the stage, his ear seemed to be full of the clamour of praise with which London had been overwhelming its favourite.

It was to this spoilt child of fortune that he had been playing the schoolmaster--he, one captious man of letters, against the world.
But she had not a thought of the kind, or rather, the situation presented itself to her in exactly the contrary light.