"So you're one of Peter's friends?" she said, still scornfully. "You're much younger than he is."
"Yes, I am," he said. "But that doesn't prevent our being splendid friends."
"Do you write too?" she asked, but with no curiosity, wearily, angrily, her eyes moving like restless candles lighting up a room that was dark for her.
"I hope to," he answered, "but it's hard to get started—harder than ever it was."
"Peter didn't find it hard when he began. Did you, Peter?" she asked, a curious note of irony in her voice. "He began right away—with a great flourish. Every one talking about him. . . . Didn't quite keep it up though," she ended, her voice sinking into a mutter.
"Never mind all that now," Peter said, trying to speak lightly.
"Why not mind it?" she broke in sharply. "That young man's your friend, isn't he? He ought to know what you were like when you were young. Those happy days. . . ." She laughed bitterly. "Oh! I ruined his work, you know," she went on. "Yes, I did. All my fault. Now see what he's become. He's grown fat. You've grown fat, Peter, got quite a stomach. You hadn't then or I wouldn't have married you. Are you married?" she said, suddenly turning on Henry.
"No," he answered.
"Well, don't you be. I've tried it and I know. Marriage is just this: If you're unhappy it's hell, and if you're happy it makes you soft. . . ."
She seemed then suddenly to have said enough. She leant back against the cushion, not regarding any more the two men, brooding. . . .