They both sat in dead silence for five minutes. He was looking at the black velvet toque on the fair hair, over the soft eyes. She was staring across at the cherry-coloured carnations in the pewter vase on the mantelpiece.
As has been said, they often exchanged ideas without words.
He remarked, as she glanced at a book: 'Yes, I have read A Life of
Slavery. Have you? Do you think it good?'
'Splendid,' Edith answered; 'it's a labour of hate.'
He laughed.
'Quite true. One can't call it a labour of love, though it was written to please the writer—not the public.'
'I wonder you could read it,' said Edith, 'after what you've been through.'
'It took my thoughts off life,' he said.
'Why? Isn't it life?'
'Of course it is. Literary life.'