"You've hardly told me anything about your time in London," said Pauline.
He looked at her sharply in case this might be a prelude to jealous interrogation.
"There's nothing much to tell. I settled that my poems should appear anonymously. I'm afraid their publication may otherwise do me more harm than good."
"All your poems?" she asked wistfully.
He nodded impelled by a strong desire for absolute honesty, though he would have liked to except the poems about her, knowing how much she must be wounded to hear even them called worthless.
"Then I've been no good to you at all?"
"Of course you have. Because these poems are no good, it doesn't follow that what I write next won't be good. And yet I'm uncertain whether I ought to go on merely writing. I'm beginning to wonder if I oughtn't to have gone out to Persia with Gascony. I refused the job because I thought it would upset you. And so, dearest Pauline, when next you feel jealous, do remember that. Do remember that it is always you who come first. Don't think I'm regretful about Persia. I'm only wondering on your account if I ought to have gone. It would have made our marriage in three years a certainty, but still I hope by journalism to make it certain in one year. Are you glad, my Pauline?"
"Yes, of course I'm glad," she answered without fervour.
"And you won't be jealous of my friends? Because it's impossible to be in London without friends you know."
"I told you I should never be enough."