He was overcome with the desire to hold her in his arms.
"Oh yes," he said.

"That is, I want to write them." She would not take her large grey eyes off his face.
"Novels," she repeated.

"Why do you write novels?
You ought to write music.

Music, you see"-- she shifted her eyes, and became less desirable as her brain began to work, inflicting a certain change upon her face--"music goes straight for things.

It says all there is to say at once.