When she knew by the sounds that he was intent upon filling it, Frances Mary darted a look across. Her eyes, still wet, were lighted with fun.
After a bit she murmured: “You’re working too hard.”
He shook his head. “It isn’t overwork that makes me irritable. It’s the hundreds of little distractions and interruptions; ordinary business of life. When I’m working, it hurts like needles to be dragged back. So by the time night comes . . .” he finished with a shrug.
“I know,” she said.
“But it’s nothing to worry about,” he went on. “It’s not a disease, but a condition. It’s the inevitable result of our circumstances, and I must just put up with it until they improve, or until the children are old enough for school.”
There was a silence.
“This story ought to have your name on it, Fanny,” he said. “It’s as much yours as mine.”
“Nonsense! I only supplied the critical element.”
“Oh, critical or creative, what’s the diff.? They’re interacting. You have supplied a good half of both.”
“I’m not being self-sacrificing,” she said, snipping the darning cotton. “Some day I’m going to write again. When the children get bigger. In the meantime I don’t want to be a mere tail to your kite. Far better for me to be forgotten awhile, and come back with a bang!”