She mused for a moment. Then, leaning more heavily upon the carved lions of her chair, she continued:
“Hitherto, although I have sometimes dealt with human frailty, I have treated it gently. I have never betrayed a Zola-spirit.”
“Zola! My darling!” cried Mr. Eustace Greyne. “You are surely not going to betray anything of that sort now!”
“If she does we shall soon have to move off to West Kensington,” was his secret thought.
“No. But in book six of ‘Catherine’ I have to deal with sin, with tumult, with African frailty. It is inevitable.”
She sighed once more. The burden of the new book was very heavy upon her.
“African frailty!” murmured the astonished Eustace Greyne.
“Now, neither you nor I, my husband, know anything about this.”
“Certainly not, my darling. How should we? We have never explored beyond Lucerne.”
“We must, therefore, get to know about it—at least you must. For I cannot leave London. The continuity of the brain’s travelling must not be imperiled by any violent bodily activity. In the present stage of my book a sea journey might be disastrous.”