"They did not speak. I was with Ida," said his wife. "It was the purest accident. Ida bowed—indeed, so did I—and he took off his hat, but no one stopped or spoke. Ida is troubled because he looked extremely wretched; even I can see his eyes now as they looked when we passed him. However, as I say, you put a stop to the matter, and they must both get over it as best they can. I have never blamed you, I think. It was very premature, I grant you. My only feeling has been that, as a writer of romance all your days, you showed remarkably little sympathy with a pair of sufficiently romantic young lovers!"
"My dear, I choose to keep romance in its proper place—between the covers of my books. I have more than enough of it there, I can assure you, if I could afford to consult my own taste."
"You can't put in too much of it to suit mine. Your love-story has been the strong point in all your novels, Wolff, and it is still. This new one is of your very best in that respect. I foresee a sweet scene in the boat-house."
"I am in the middle of it now," the novelist said, complacently.
"I have visions of the old general turning up when she is in his arms. I do hope you won't let him, Wolff."
"How well you know my work, my love! The general came in and caught them just before I wiped my pen yesterday. It ended the chapter very nicely. I was in good form at lunch."
"And what is going to happen to-day?"
"Can you ask? The general blusters. George behaves like a gentleman, and scores all down the line, for the time being."
"But surely she is allowed to marry him in the end?"
"She always is, my dear, in my books."