She talked on in her indignant strain, but he was not following her.  He was smiling to himself as he looked up into her virginal face, so innocent, so penetratingly innocent, that its purity seemed always to enter into him, driving out of him all dross and bathing him in some ethereal effulgence that was as cool and soft and velvety as starshine. We know there are nasty things in the world!  He cuddled to him the notion of her knowing, and chuckled over it as a love joke.  The next moment, in a flashing vision of multitudinous detail, he sighted the whole sea of life’s nastiness that he had known and voyaged over and through, and he forgave her for not understanding the story.  It was through no fault of hers that she could not understand.  He thanked God that she had been born and sheltered to such innocence.  But he knew life, its foulness as well as its fairness, its greatness in spite of the slime that infested it, and by God he was going to have his say on it to the world.  Saints in heaven—­how could they be anything but fair and pure?  No praise to them.  But saints in slime—­ah, that was the everlasting wonder!  That was what made life worth while.  To see moral grandeur rising out of cesspools of iniquity; to rise himself and first glimpse beauty, faint and far, through mud-dripping eyes; to see out of weakness, and frailty, and viciousness, and all abysmal brutishness, arising strength, and truth, and high spiritual endowment—­

He caught a stray sequence of sentences she was uttering.

“The tone of it all is low.  And there is so much that is high.  Take ’In Memoriam.’”

He was impelled to suggest “Locksley Hall,” and would have done so, had not his vision gripped him again and left him staring at her, the female of his kind, who, out of the primordial ferment, creeping and crawling up the vast ladder of life for a thousand thousand centuries, had emerged on the topmost rung, having become one Ruth, pure, and fair, and divine, and with power to make him know love, and to aspire toward purity, and to desire to taste divinity—­him, Martin Eden, who, too, had come up in some amazing fashion from out of the ruck and the mire and the countless mistakes and abortions of unending creation.  There was the romance, and the wonder, and the glory.  There was the stuff to write, if he could only find speech.  Saints in heaven!—­They were only saints and could not help themselves.  But he was a man.

“You have strength,” he could hear her saying, “but it is untutored strength.”

“Like a bull in a china shop,” he suggested, and won a smile.

“And you must develop discrimination.  You must consult taste, and fineness, and tone.”

“I dare too much,” he muttered.

She smiled approbation, and settled herself to listen to another story.

“I don’t know what you’ll make of this,” he said apologetically.  “It’s a funny thing.  I’m afraid I got beyond my depth in it, but my intentions were good.  Don’t bother about the little features of it.  Just see if you catch the feel of the big thing in it.  It is big, and it is true, though the chance is large that I have failed to make it intelligible.”