“On your way to me?” he began.
“Calling on your wife. Bless the man, he doesn’t know his wife’s at-home day, I believe!” Powis laughed good-temperedly as he spoke. “I expect you hate that kind of thing. Well, so do I, as a rule. It takes as charming a woman as Mrs. Kingslake to get an old fellow like me out calling nowadays, I can tell you.”
Robert smiled. He had no idea that Cecily knew Powis at all.
“I see her book’s coming out on Monday,” the elder man went on. “Great excitement for you both, eh? Well, I hope it’ll be a great success. She deserves it. Clever girl! I always thought, even when she was a little thing at home, she’d astonish us all some day. You kept her in the country too long, Kingslake. We’re all glad to see her back.”
Robert murmured a fairly appropriate reply. He felt rather dazed and confused.
“When are we to have your new novel?” was the next question. “Mustn’t lag behind your wife, you know. Why don’t you collaborate? But I expect you do. Well, we’re impeding the traffic here. Sorry I sha’n’t see you at the flat this afternoon. Good-bye.” He hurried off, leaving Robert to ponder his voluble words.
Cecily’s book out on Monday? He didn’t even know she was writing a book. He walked on to the station, and mechanically took a ticket for South Kensington. “Great excitement for you both.” The genial words fell again on his ear with ironical effect, while he was at the same moment conscious of one more stab to his vanity—an important personal equipment, which, of late, had been wounded more than a little. His own new book had been out quite six weeks, and it had fallen absolutely flat. This fact, a not uncommon check to the rising novelist, had depressed him considerably. Cecily had been very sympathetic about it. He remembered this still, with gratitude. Cecily, he reflected, was one of the few people who could be sorry for one without wounding.
So she had been writing a book! It seemed strange to think of it. He remembered how, in the early years of their marriage, he had sometimes found her “scribbling.” He remembered how he had at first laughed and teased her, and afterwards, when she had shown symptoms of “taking it seriously,” how he had shown his disapproval. He thought of this now, and it seemed to him rather a contemptible attitude to have adopted. He felt vaguely ashamed. But he had been jealous, really jealous; he recalled the sensation now with a curious stirring of a forgotten emotion with regard to his wife—jealous that she should be absorbed in anything that did not concern him. How long ago it all seemed! And now she had written a novel, and he did not even know who was her publisher. He supposed she had placed it the more easily because of his name, which was also hers. There was comfort in that reflection. He was glad to have been of use to her. He hoped she would get some encouragement; he hoped——
And then he shook himself impatiently, conscious that he was not really thinking any of these things. All that was vividly present in his mind was a touch of resentment, a curious sense of bitterness that he knew so little about her; that he did not even know the men who went to the house. Except Mayne. He frowned involuntarily. Mayne was there a good deal. Well, he himself had often impressively invited him. With some haste he dismissed this reflection. At the moment it was one he did not feel disposed to investigate. It was unfortunate that he could not feel cordial towards Mayne. But after all, one’s likes and dislikes were not within one’s control, and Mayne was Cecily’s friend, and so—— He banished the subject with an impatient shrug.
On emerging from the station at South Kensington, he heard his name uttered somewhat piercingly, and in response to a peremptory order, a motor-car drew up smoothly beside the curb.