He laughed, realising that most of what she said was true.
"You see," he said, "I have the roots of my life with you. But I want if possible to send out a new shoot in the life of mankind—the effort man makes forever, to grow into new forms."
She looked at him. And somehow she wanted to cry, because he was so silly in refusing to be finally disappointed in his efforts with mankind, and yet his silliness was pathetic, in a way beautiful. But then it was so silly—she wanted to shake him.
"Send out a new shoot then. Send it out. You do it in your writing already!" she cried. "But getting yourself mixed up with these impudent little people won't send any shoots, don't you think it. They'll nip you in the bud again, as they always do."
He pondered this also, stubbornly, and knew it was true. But he had set his will on something, and wasn't going to give way.
"I want to do something with living people, somewhere, somehow, while I live on the earth. I write, but I write alone. And I live alone. Without any connection whatever with the rest of men."
"Don't swank, you don't live alone. You've got me there safe enough, to support you. Don't swank to me about being alone, because it insults me, you see. I know how much alone you are, with me always there keeping you together."
And again he sulked and swallowed it, and obstinately held out.
"None the less," he retorted, "I do want to do something along with men. I am alone and cut off. As a man among men, I just have no place. I have my life with you, I know: et preterea nihil."
"Et preterea nihil! And what more do you want? Besides, you liar, haven't you your writing? Isn't that all you want, isn't that doing all there is to be done? Men! Much men there is about them! Bah, when it comes to that, I have to be even the only man as well as the only woman."
"That's the whole trouble," said he bitingly.
"Bah, you creature, you ought to be grateful," cried Harriet.
