“I don’t know what’s the matter with my work,” he was saying, irritably. “The book’s not going a bit.”
“Not a bit,” agreed Philippa, with somewhat exasperating calm.
“What’s the reason?” demanded Robert, coming to an abrupt pause before her chair.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Your dear public’s tired of that particular mild blend, I suppose. You must mix something else. Give it them stronger.”
Robert glanced at her. It struck him that her tone was not quite sympathetic. Philippa had an occasional odd trick of dropping the mystic for the pronouncedly colloquial turn of speech. “You speak as though I were a tea merchant or a tobacconist,” he exclaimed.
“Don’t you wish you were?” she asked, stretching out her hand for a cigarette.
“No,” returned Robert, shortly.
At times, also, Philippa was quite disconcertingly materialistic. He never quite knew what to make of her at such moments. It was such a curious lapse from her usual lofty standpoint. She saw his bewilderment, and after a moment put out her hand to him.
“Dear, I know how it frets you as an artist, but, after all, even artists must live. And to do that they must condescend to the stupid multitude. Why not write a society novel, Robert?” She sat upright in her chair. “With lots of titles, you know——”
“And the women spiteful enough,” put in Robert, with a short laugh. “I’ve had that advice once to-day—from Lady Wilmot. I scarcely expected it from you, Philippa.”