Then she remembered.
What was the use if she was just going to destroy it?
If——!
And its constant sequel: Why?
Why should she destroy her work?
It was her work no less than Hubert's work was his, however much more easily she worked. That hers came to her brain, she knew not whence, whilst he hammered out his from formulæ, was very likely nothing much against it.
Why had he said this second book would never sell? It interested her: why should it not interest others? How could he possibly know, when he had never seen it?
It was mere jealousy of course.
Ruth had said practically that. She had said that he could not endure rivalry; he must be supreme, if only in a little house. He knew that her book had sold better, ever so much better than any of his own, and that was what he really minded. Yes, she saw it all now; all from the beginning. He had not minded in the least that she should think him (as he still believed) self-centred, cruel, or neglectful; that had not pained him in the least, he had not really minded her publishing the book. No, what had really hurt him always—she saw now—was the book's success; what Ruth had called his own eclipse. He had worked, as he said, for fifteen years; he had called it a "job"; and in one moment she had cut him out!
That, Helena decided in a rapid flash, was the whole mainspring of his anger.