In the sanctuary of our bedroom that night, my wife said:
“Did you really believe that that writing on the photograph was by Henry Irving?”
“My dear,” I answered, “when their careers are finished, the painter, the author, the architect or the sculptor may point to this or that, and say, ‘Lo! this is my handiwork.’ But to the actor nothing remains but—memories. Their permanence lies in the memories of those who loved them. Are we to begrudge them all the riches of imagination? After all, what is the line of demarcation between what we call reality and what we call imagination? Is not the imagery invoked by Shelley when he sings of dubious myths as real a fact as the steel rivets in the Forth Bridge? What is reality? Indeed, what is life?”
“I don’t know what life is,” answered my wife, switching off the light. “But I know what you are. You’re a dear old—perfect old—BOOB!”
“Alice, what do you mean?” I said.
She laughed softly.
“Women are ‘equipped,’ you know,” she replied enigmatically, and insisted on going to sleep.