“What about this thing you’re writing?” he asked with a little gulp.

“What thing?”

“Concha said you were writing something. What is it ... a ‘strong’ novel?”

“It’s ... it’s historical, I suppose.”

“Oh, I see—‘historical fiction.’”

“It isn’t fiction at all; it’s a play.”

“Well, anyway, may I read it?”

“Oh no! It isn’t finished ... it....”

“We must get it acted, when it is.”

“Oh, no!” and she shrank back, as if he had threatened to strike her.