It was night. He had been absent for some days, and had just returned. Henley, meanwhile, had been raging because the book had come to a complete standstill. He himself could do nothing at it, since they had reached a dead-lock, and had not talked over any new scenes, or mutually decided upon the turn events were now to take. He felt rather cross and sore.
“ You can go forward,” he said: “yes, after your holiday. You might at least tell me when you are going.”
“I never know myself,” Andrew said rather sadly.
He was looking very white and worn, and his eyes were heavy.
“But I have thought some fresh material out. My idea is this: The man now becomes such a complete slave to the morphia habit that concealment of the fact is scarcely possible. And, indeed, he ceases to desire to conceal it from the woman. The next scene will be an immensely powerful one—that in which he tells her the truth.”
“You do not think it would be more natural if she found it out against his will? It seems to me that what he had concealed so long he would try to hide for ever.”
“No,” Andrew said emphatically; “that would not be so.”
“But——”
“Look here,” the other interrupted, with some obvious irritability; “let me tell you what I have conceived, and raise any objections afterwards if you wish to raise them. He would tell her the truth himself. He would almost glory in doing so. That is the nature of the man. We have depicted his pride in his own powers, his temptation, his struggle—his fall, as it would be called——”
“As it would be called.”