"Arnold," she exclaimed, "how dare you! You promised to read your story when you had finished six chapters, and you are working on chapter twenty now!"
Her long white forefinger pointed accusingly to the heading of my last page. Then I realized with a sudden flash of apprehension why I had not kept my promise—why I could never keep it. The story which flowed so smoothly from my pen was a record of my own emotions, my own sufferings. Even her name had usurped the name of my heroine, and stared up at me from the half-finished page. It was my own story which was written there, my own unhappiness which throbbed through every word and sentence. With a little nervous gesture I covered over the open sheets. I rose hastily to my feet, and I drew her away from the table.
"Another time, Isobel," I said. "It is too glorious a day to spend indoors, and Arthur has taken holiday too. Tell me, what shall we do?"
She looked at me a little doubtfully. I had grown into the habit of consulting her about my work, of reading most of it to her. Sometimes, too, she acted as my secretary. Perhaps she saw something of the trouble in my face, for she answered me very softly.
"I should like," she said, "to sit there before the open window on a cushion, and to have you sit down in that easy-chair and read to me. That is how I choose to spend the morning!"
I shook my head.
"How about the others?" I asked.
"Oh, Arthur and Allan can go for a walk!" she declared.
"What selfishness," I answered, as lightly as I could. "Arthur must go back to town to-night, he says. I think that we ought all to spend the day together, don't you? I rather thought that you young people would have been off somewhere directly after breakfast."
She looked at me earnestly.