"Mind? Oh, no! It's amusing to hear that you've been gobbled up, as a possible experience, a stimulus, as it were, to a lady's literary expression. I really owe you to Christiansen, don't I?"
"Does it seem a meaner motive than yours, in marrying me, Jerry?"
"Go on with the story," he said, ignoring her question.
"There isn't any more. Martin advised me, criticised my work, helped in every way. This winter I have finished a book."
"Finished a book? Why, when did you do it?"
"Mornings—on my mysterious errands that vexed you so. I kept my old room at Mrs. Biggs's, and went there to work."
"Oh!" said Jerry, with colour slowly rising.
"Yes; simpler than you thought. The day you met Martin and me, he was taking me to a publishers' office. This is their letter to me."
She gave it to him and he read it through carefully. When he looked up she saw that he was excited.
"Do I congratulate you? Is that what a man does who suddenly finds himself possessed of a wife with a well-developed career?"