Her eyes softened as she spoke. They even filled with water, tears, I suppose. But she seemed to me to be talking nonsense. Ascher was making money, piling it up. He could stop if he liked. So I thought. So any sensible man must think. And as for living somewhere far, far away, what did the woman want to get away from? Every possible place of residence on the earth’s surface is near some other place. You cannot get far, far away from everywhere. The thing is a physical impossibility. I made an effort to get back to common sense.
“About Tim Gorman’s cash register?” I said. “What would you suggest?”
“You mustn’t let them do that hateful thing,” she said. “You can stop them if you will.”
“I don’t believe I can,” I said. “I’m extraordinarily feeble and ineffectual in every way. In business matters I’m a mere babe.”
“Mr. Gorman will listen to you,” she said. “He will understand if you explain to him. He is a writer, an artist. He must understand.”
I shook my head. Gorman can write. I admit that. His writing is a great deal better than Mrs. Ascher’s modelling, though she did do that head of Tim. I do not hail Gorman’s novels or his plays as great literature, though they are good. But some of his criticism is the finest thing of its kind that has been published in our time. But Gorman does not look at these matters as Mrs. Ascher does. I do not believe he ever wrote a line in his life without expecting to be paid for it. He would not write at all if he could find any easier and pleasanter way of making money. There was no use saying that to Mrs. Ascher. All I could do when she asked me to appeal to Gorman’s artistic soul was to shake my head. I shook it as decisively as I could.
“And my husband will listen to you,” she said.
“My dear lady! wouldn’t he be much more likely to listen to you?”
“But we never talk about such things,” she said. “Never, never. Our life together is sacred, hallowed, a thing apart,
‘Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot
Which men call earth.’”