“There is something in what you say,” Agnes assented; “and it would be especially awkward for you, since the invention is in my head.”
“Then we will consider it all arranged.”
“Oh, no, George; by no means. I couldn’t think of it for a minute!”
Whether she did think of it for a minute is a point which may be left for the settling of those versed in the ways of the feminine mind; certain it is that the programme was carried out—except in one trifling particular. We were quietly married, we did go to St. Augustine, but as for doing anything with the story, that was quite another thing. We did not finish it then, and we have not finished it yet, and I have ceased to have any very firm confidence that we ever shall finish it; although, whenever arises one of those financial crises which are so painfully frequent in the family of a literary man, and we sit down to consider possible resources, one or the other of us is sure sooner or later to observe:—
“And then there is ‘April’s Lady,’ you know.”