"I was going to ask you," he said, his manner suddenly changing to one that impressed her, unconsciously to both of them. "I was going to ask you if you don't think you could do something to modernise your style a little. Just from the business point of view, I mean."
He saw her wince, but kept on, with benevolent ruthlessness.
"I've been reading over some of your books since I met you, and I like 'em, and I quite see the reason for their popularity." He broke off shortly, and asked her, his head cocked on one side, his lips pursed fiercely: "How are your sales now, compared to what they were, say, ten years ago?"
Mrs. Walbridge took up the poker and bent over the fire. He knew she was doing it to hide her face, and moved slightly so that he could keep on looking at her, for he meant to have the truth, and knew that this truthful lady would not hesitate to lie to him on this occasion.
"About the same, I think," she said in an undertone, poking the fire destructively.
He took the poker out of her hand, and by pointing it at her, forced her slowly back into her chair.
"Oh, come now," he protested. "Honour bright—man to man, you know—business——"
There was a pause, after which she said: "Well, then, if you put it like that, no! my sales have been growing less for some years now, slowly, until—until quite lately. My last book was really almost a failure. Don't," she added, clasping her thin hands and bending forward a little, "don't mention this to Grisel, will you? They none of them know. I—I didn't like to worry them."
The young man rose and walked to the window, saying: "Oh, hell!" under his breath.
"Of course I won't tell Grisel," he almost shouted from between the lace curtains; "but doesn't your husband know?"