“The wrong sort of revolution.”
“Not at all. I wrote them with a purpose.”
“Then the purpose was wrong.”
“Thank God you cut them and not I. I should esteem myself a coward if I had done that.”
“I don’t. You will never heal by throwing vitriol.”
Wynne’s tenacity was tremendous, and he fought for every inch of ground before conceding it. The lesson, however, did him good, and thereafter, if not always with the best grace, he submitted his writings to her for approval.
Eve had a very sure literary sense, and her criticisms were as just as they were courageous. Wynne could never gauge to what extent a reader will allow the scourge of wit to fall upon his shoulders, but Eve, by some peculiar insight of her own, knew this to a nicety, and little by little forced him to her way of seeing.
As his writings began to be accepted he came to a silent acknowledgment of the value of her decisions, and, subconsciously, his mind, in certain directions, ran parallel with hers. By his sharp acquisitive sense he came to know how she arrived at her reasoning, and in learning this, the necessity to appeal to her diminished correspondingly. Once an idea was firmly implanted it became a part of his being, and very soon his pen lost its jagged edge and ran more smoothly over the pages.
For nearly a year the partners worked together, each in their separate spheres, to the common end of success.
That his mind might go free and unworried wheresoever it willed, Eve cooked and darned, and kept his house in order. It was a grey enough life, with little to raise it from the ruck of sordid domesticity. To all intent and purpose she was a general servant, privileged at rare intervals to wash her hands, sit at her master’s table and share his speech. Her reward was to hear an echo of some of her sweetness in his writings, and to see the results of her gentle care in his looks and bearing.