There was a silence. The dining-room was full of comfort.
“You are the one who has given up things,” said Frances Mary. “I have found myself in marriage, and grown fat; while you . . .”
“In seven years his face had become a little greyed; but was still capable of lighting up wonderfully,” chanted Wilfred.
“You goose!”
“I needed the halter,” said Wilfred. “I was all over the place.”
“Look here,” she said, “if by some miracle I should write a masterpiece to-morrow, it wouldn’t hurt you nearly as much as it would seven years ago, would it?”
“Oh no,” he said. “Then I was raw with vanity. The mere blowing of the wind hurt me.”
“Well then; it won’t be written for another seven years, if ever. By that time you will be more pleased than if you had written it yourself.”
“Not quite that,” said Wilfred grinning; “still . . .”
She picked up a fresh pair of socks. “You could do a little more on your novel now,” she hazarded.