Presently, where they sat, she turned and put some questions to him about his projected book. Her intentions were praiseworthy; she was a good girl, and having married an author, she understood that it was incumbent on her to take an interest in his work, though she had fancied once or twice that perhaps it would have been nicer if, like a stock-jobber, he had preferred not to discuss his business at home. Papa had never cared to do so, she knew. Discussing an author's business was not so simple as she had assumed. There seemed to be such a mass of tedious detail that really didn't matter.
"When do you think it will be finished, Humphrey?" she said.
"In nine months, I hope, if I stick to it."
"So long as nine months?" she exclaimed with surprise. "Why, I've read—let me see—two, three new ones of Mrs. St. Julian's this year! Will it really take so long as nine months?"
"Quite, sweetheart; perhaps longer. I don't write quickly, I'm sorry to say. Still, it won't be bad business if Cousins pay the two hundred and fifty that I expect. I think they ought to, after the way the last has been received."
"Some people get much more, don't they?"
"Just a trifle!" he said. "Yes; but I'm not a popular writer, you see. Wait a bit, though; we'll astonish your mother with our grandeurs yet. You shall have a victoria, and two men on the box, with powdered hair, and drive out on a wet day and splash mud at your enemies."
"I don't think I have any enemies," she laughed.
"You will have when you have the victoria and pair. Some poor beggar of an author who's hoping to get two hundred and fifty pounds for nine months' toil will look at you from a bus and cuss you."
"Suppose you can't get two hundred and fifty?" she inquired. "You can't be sure."