An ironic smile twisted the corner of his lips. “Now that you mention it—no. I wanted to make a good deal more money. I was going to turn over two or three pieces of real estate next week that I expected a profit upon. I meant to build a finer house for my wife—a big, new one, with all the modern wrinkles of architecture and furnishing. Then, if I had known she was going to have charge of things so soon, I should have altered one or two investments”——
His pain grew sharper and he groaned. When he was still she spoke again.
“If I had met you yesterday I should have said that your interests in life were very much less fine and spiritual than my own. I wrote things that people praised. They said I was clever, ingenious, witty; but they never said I was an artist. I meant to make them say it. I was going to write a novel next winter that should show”—She stopped, but presently went on, musingly: “It is very odd, but somehow it doesn’t seem as important as it did this morning. Do you care that your house will never be built?”
“No.”
“And I don’t care about my novel. I called my interest in life art, and you called yours business; but neither of them seems to count any more. The question is, What does count?”
“Close your eyes and lie still for five minutes, and note what you find yourself unable to avoid thinking of. That will show you what counts.”
“You have been trying it?”
He made a motion of assent.
“Well,” he asked, after a silence on her part that seemed long, “does it work?”
“Yes,” she said, in a tense way; “it works too well. What did you see?”