“Damn it! if I cut her out altogether, I’d have to rewrite the whole thing!” he cried excitedly.
Frances Mary said nothing.
“Why didn’t you say so in the beginning?”
“It just struck me, Wilfred.”
He jumped up, half beside himself. “All my work has gone for nothing now!” he burst out. “I work for days and you destroy it with a word! You know I can’t afford to spend any more time on something that wont sell!”
He flung out of the room. Frances Mary, pricking her upper lip with the needle, sat looking at the door as if her whole being was outside it. She had been taught that it would make matters worse for her to follow. For many minutes she sat listening and waiting.
Wilfred came in again, horribly self-conscious. Marching up to his wife, and tipping her head back, he kissed her lips. She kept her hands squeezed together, and held her tongue; but could not help her lips from clinging.
“I’m sorry,” said Wilfred with a ridiculous hangdog air. “I’m so damned ill-tempered I’m a burden to myself!” He returned to his chair, keeping his face averted from the light.
Frances Mary’s head was lowered, and tears dropped on the stocking; but her mouth was happily curved.
“You’re right about the story, of course,” said Wilfred doggedly. “It’s hard for me to shake off the romantic stuff that I deal in every day . . . I ought to have a job of some kind. Pegasus becomes spavined in the milkcart. . . .” As he forced himself to speak on, it visibly became less difficult. It was almost cheerfully that he said at last: “I wont have to rewrite the whole thing of course. I can do it in a day if I get an early start. It will be twice as good.” He drew a long breath, and let it escape again. He reached for his pipe.