Phillips filled his pipe and lighted it.
"I wish I had your pen," he said, suddenly breaking the silence. "I'm
all right at talking; but I want to get at the others: the men and women
who never come, thinking it has nothing to do with them. I'm shy and
awkward when I try to write. There seems a barrier in front of me. You
break through it. One hears your voice. Tell me," he said, "are you
getting your way? Do they answer you?"
"Yes," said Joan. "Not any great number of them, not yet. But enough to
show that I really am interesting them. It grows every week."
"Tell them that," he said. "Let them hear each other. It's the same at
a meeting. You wait ten minutes sometimes before one man will summon up
courage to put a question; but once one or two have ventured they spring
up all round you. I was wondering," he added, "if you would help me; let
me use you, now and again."
"It is what I should love," she answered. "Tell me what to do." She was
not conscious of the low, vibrating tone in which she spoke.
"I want to talk to them," he said, "about their stomachs.
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