“Julian, don’t you think it very odd that not a soul has called?”
“Well, no, my dear; the fact is—they know who I am, and that I’m desperately busy, and only here for absolute peace and seclusion. They understand how hard I am working.”
“Yes, of course, that’s all right. But what about me? I’m not clamouring for a rush of callers, or chatterers; but tea in the garden, and a game of tennis, or even a walk with another woman would not disturb you. Do you know that I’ve not spoken to one of my sex for eight weeks? I really don’t want to grumble, dear—but it’s rather dreary for me. And I cannot understand why not even the parson’s wife has called—though I’m a regular attendant at church. I expect they’ve had an infectious disease in this house—and that not very long ago. The neighbours are afraid to come near us. What is your idea?”
“Um! Um!”—taking his cheroot out of his mouth and looking at it thoughtfully. “Maybe so. There may be something in what you say.”
Then he suddenly picked up the Spectator, and she resumed her embroidery with a sigh. After a few moments’ dead silence the author raised his eyes cautiously over the paper, and gravely surveyed his wife. The expression on his face was rather anxious and doubtful. As Helen caught his eye, she said:
“How soon do you think the book will be finished?” She had actually come to hate the great work! Solitude, silence, and loneliness had quenched her earlier enthusiasm.
“I am just commencing the last chapter but one.”
“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed with heartfelt satisfaction.
“I’m hoping that this work will definitely decide my position as an authority on Assyrian matters, and rank me with Blair, Usher, and Clinton. If so, my labours will not have been in vain”; and he smiled with easy assurance.
“But, Julian dear, do you think that it was worth it?”