"What do most wives do," he asked, "whose husbands are away? They don't rush about everywhere with artist-wasters; they do some work or something."
It was a vague ending, but it lent Helena her chance.
"Exactly what I wanted you to say," she cried. "I don't want to do anything again without your leave; but now I will do some work. I'll live my own life, if you don't want me to share yours."
"What do you mean, Helena?" he asked. This was a new mood.
"I mean," she said surprised at her own calmness, "that Blatchleys have offered me two hundred pounds advance for my new novel. I said I must ask you first, but now I shall accept it."
"I utterly forbid it," he cried wildly and leapt to his feet. They were both standing now.
"What?" she exclaimed. "Forbid? What do you forbid? How can you forbid? You could have, in the old days; I wouldn't have done anything if you had asked me not; but now—how can you forbid?"
"I do," he cried excitedly. "I utterly forbid it." He was gaining time to think.
There was a pause while they stood facing one another.
"Do you think," he said presently, "apart from all that's happened, this horrible publicity, my friends all chaffing me, I ever would have married the sort of woman you propose becoming? I wanted a wife to look after me, to be a nice companion; I didn't want a woman-writer. I hate that type of woman. You were a simple, jolly girl when I first married you, and now—writing this popular clap-trap!—you must see, Helena, it isn't fair?" His stern air melted almost to appeal.