ANOTHER SPRING
MARCH
When the poems were returned by three publishers within the first fortnight of March, Guy was inclined to surrender his vocation and to think about such regular work as would banish the reproach he began to fancy was now perceptible at the back of everybody's eyes. The weather was abominably cold, and even Plashers Mead itself was no longer the embodiment of the old enthusiasm. Already in order to pay current expenses he was drawing upon the next quarter, and the combination of tradesmen's books with icy draughts curling through the house produced an atmosphere of perpetual exasperation. It always seemed to be coldest on Monday morning, and Miss Peasey would breathe over his shoulder while he was adding up the bills.
"We apparently live on butter," he grumbled.
"Oh no, it was really lamb you had yesterday," the housekeeper maintained, irrelevantly.
"I said we apparently live on butter," Guy shouted.
Then, of course Miss Peasey would poke her veiny nose right down into the book, while the draught blew her hair about and unpleasantly tickled his cheek.
"It's the best butter," she said, sorrowfully, at last.