She awoke to the fact that Gareth was not writing. And that his book still awaited completion. Seemingly he had forgotten all about it. Incredible. She spurred him with eager reminder.
"It's nearly finished," he assured her contentedly.
"Oh, you've been working at it in secret. Good."
"Well, not lately. But it only wants another half-dozen chapters or so."
"Hurry up with them then, you tortoise. I haven't even read the masterpiece yet—think of it! And here I am, wilting away for want of proof that I've married a genius."
He twinkled a fond look at her ... his wife. "I'm not used to brilliantly overwhelming apparitions like yourself flashing into my sober life. You've rather taken my breath away. Make allowances for that, Patricia."
"I didn't notice it—at Lynn," she laughed; "such a little chatterbox!"
Promptly he exacted penance for her raillery.... And the subject of the book was for the moment shelved.
But a few days later she resumed it. She was truly impatient to witness "The Round Adventure" published; to hear the acclamation, critical or enthusiastic, which should be apology for allowing her own talent to lie fallow. Above all, she longed for the sight of his happiness when his fellows should at last hail him as true artist, as One of Them ... he had confided in her all those dreams of his.
Just at present, the machinery which should produce this sequence of publication and recognition seemed to be unaccountably clogged. A touch from her finger would suffice to set it in motion again. She touched—in fact, sublimely unaware that delicacy was needed, she banged.