"Of course." His tone was high pitched, hysterical. "Naturally I'll write."
"Write, Jasper."
He caught up his pen and dipped it in the ink. He drew the white pile of paper nearer to him.
"Jasper—"
"How can I work if you don't stop talking? How can I do anything? How can I write?"
"Are—you—writing—Jasper? Are—you—?"
He did not answer her.
"Because;" she went on very quietly. "It's gone back, Jasper. It's—gone—now—"
His pen went to and fro; to and fro across the page. His figure was bent well over the desk. Every now and again, without moving, his bulging blue eyes would lift themselves to the clear blank blind of the window opposite and then they would come back and fix themselves intently upon the white page of paper which he was so busily covering with stupid, meaningless little drawings.