"The bulk done!" She was thinking of her months of silent and agonized labor—her labor that had been lost.
"Yes, now the work of the file remains—and that's easy."
Was it so easy? she was wondering.
Cordelia, he thought, did not appear able to share in his enthusiasm. She seemed to take no delight in what he had called their common accomplishment. She accepted it all very quietly, and did not even ask when she might see the manuscript. He had expected her to be more openly interested, at any rate, and was momentarily chilled and puzzled at her unlooked-for indifference. Then some gleam of light seemed to come to him, for looking at her again, she smiled up at him through her still gentle glance of reproach.
"Did you forget? This is my first night."
"Your first night?" He felt that their lives had been strangely divided of late, that he was looking out on her existence as through a floating veil, or as one looks from a tower on a windy world.
"Yes, to-night The Silver Poppy has its first performance—it's first performance in town, I mean."
He had forgotten it completely, shamefully. But it brought him a relieving touch of happiness; he understood now why she had elbowed into the background the thing that had stood out so important to him. He was trying to explain away his stupidity and to laugh away his absent-mindedness when Mrs. Spaulding's voice sounded in the hall.
Cordelia suddenly turned to him.
"You'll come with us to-night, of course?"