She lifted her eyes to her lover, smiled, recognising her destiny.
After dinner that evening, in his study, he sat at his desk with the typed manuscript over which he had agonised all winter.
Eris, perched on the arm of his chair, read it over his shoulder, page after page.
“It seems to be getting on, darling,” she ventured.
“Well, I’ve got to talk it over with you. I want it to be the real thing.”
“You’ll make it so.”
He looked up at her. In his eyes there was a sort of tragic curiosity. Her heart seemed to stand still for an instant.
Suddenly he smiled, bent and touched his lips to her betrothal ring.
“‘Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,’” he murmured. “And these things are in you.”
She bent her head close to his: “What do you mean by ‘things unattempted’?”