They were in their home, having one of their endless get-no-where talks.
Norval meant to do his full part, but the trouble was that he had no part in the actual life of his pretty, commonplace wife.
"Your talent, Katherine, your talent?"
Norval did not question this derisively, but as if she had told him of having an eye in the middle of her forehead.
"You have not even been interested enough to notice." This with bitterness.
Norval, for some idiotic reason, or lack of it, stared at the middle of her smooth, white brow.
"I've written this; I did not tell you until it was between covers."
Norval took a book she offered as he might have taken a young and very doubtful baby.
"It looks ripping!" he said.
"It—it is well spoken of," Katherine's eyes were tear-dimmed.