"But it's all right now?"
"Yes, thank Heaven. I say, Toni; I went to see old Vincent about my arm to-day, and he says it is fairly normal again. I'll tell you a secret, shall I, Toni? As soon as the book is finished I'm going to start a play."
"Are you?" Her voice sounded cold, though it was only vague; and her unusual lack of interest rather hurt Owen.
"Oh, we'll have our holiday first," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to do you out of that. How would you like a few weeks in Switzerland—for the winter sports? We could get off in about three weeks, and stay over Christmas. Then, when we came home"—in spite of himself his tone took a new enthusiasm—"I could get to work again."
"You are going to write a play? But I didn't know you could write plays."
Her childishness jarred his nerves, already worn with the minor vexations of the day.
"Well, I don't know until I try." He spoke rather curtly. "But I've talked it over with Barry, and we think it sounds possible."
"I see. And if it were a success?"
"Why, our fortune would be made." He took her arm in friendly fashion. "Then we should have to go and live in town, Toni, take a big house and launch out. You'd like that, eh?"
"I should hate it," she said, so fervently that he dropped her arm in astonishment and turned to look at her.