“Writing?” she said indifferently.
“Yes—a play.”
“Is there a part for me in it?”
“No—not in this one.”
She talked of the rehearsal. He put his manuscript aside.... She did not care, aside from the question of a part for her, whether he wrote plays or not; thank heaven! She did not care whether he ever became a playwright. She did not care if he ever did anything. She did not, the gods be praised, believe in him!
He went over and kissed her.
2
The second day he wrote again on his play, all day, while again she went to rehearsals. He had not gone to the office at all. He mentioned the fact. It was evident that she did not care. Whether or not the Evening Chronicle had a dramatic editor made no difference to her.
She talked of herself. She was doing her part in “Anatol” magnificently, she said.
He pressed her hand, glad that she was so pleased with herself. She did not need his reassurance. He could not have given it. He did not believe that she would ever do that part well.