He was absurdly emotional, as all writers with their first creation. He’d been living with the book. He had staked his hopes on it. It was his mind-child.
Joyce was busy with the papers when he went in and said, “Good morning, darling!” She murmured a reply of some kind, and turned over another page of The Morning Post, which rustled loudly.
Bertram waited for a little while until she might finish the society news, or whatever it was that she was reading. She was sitting up in one of her Japanese silks with a ribbon tied round her hair, and a little frown on her forehead, like Marjorie Maude in “Peter Pan.” He sat on the bed by her side and watched her eyes roving over the big printed sheet. She was reading nothing very important. Her attention was not fixed on any definite news.
“I’ve brought my book, as far as it’s gone,” said Bertram with preposterous nervousness. “Care to hear some, Joyce? I want your opinion.”
Joyce didn’t care to hear any of the book. She had something else in her mind. It was his hostile demonstration at her Mother’s lecture.
“You behaved abominably yesterday afternoon,” she said, ignoring the book altogether. “Even father accused you of bad form when you walked out like that.”
“Oh, Lord!”
He confessed his contrition, said “Let’s forget it, sweetheart!” and showed her the mass of manuscript he had written.
“I believe I’ve done the trick,” he said, with excitement in his voice. “I’m certain it’s the real thing. Spare me an hour before lunch and let me read a bit.”
“It doesn’t interest me in the very slightest degree,” said Joyce. “Please go out of my room, and let me get up.”