“How is your work going?”
At the tone, her smile deepened; but she answered simply: “I’ve been working at the ‘Æolian Harp.’ I’d like you to read part of it later.”
“I expect I shan’t like it,” he said. “A little bird tells me you have been niggling at it. I warned you to leave it alone. It was all right as it was.”
An adorable look of anxiety came into Frances Mary’s face. It gave Wilfred a pleasant sense of power. She came to a stop; looking at him; biting her lip. “I . . . I thought I had improved it,” she faltered.
“Your vice is, never knowing when to leave a thing alone,” he said severely. “You lose sight of the whole in the parts.”
“I expect I do,” she said with a disarming humility. “Your criticism is awfully good for me. . . . What are you doing?”
Wilfred relapsed into the depths. “Nothing,” he said. The blackness was real enough; but he equivocated respecting its cause. For days past he had not even tried to write. “I’m still stuck in the middle of my restaurant story.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“Too damn sentimental!”
Frances Mary was silent.