“I really believe,” came in accents of considerable irritation from Eirene, “that you enjoy being imprisoned in underground dungeons, and climbing up and down these atrocious hills with your skirts in ribbons, and wearing horrid moccasins because you have no shoes, and being cursed and threatened if you stop to rest for a moment, just because you mean to put it into your books.”
“No, I can’t say that I enjoy it, certainly—but I can’t help knowing how well it will look in the book.”
“You are mad upon your books!” said Eirene tartly. “If it was painting, or music, or anything of that kind, I could understand it, but mere novel-writing!”
“Of course you can’t understand it yet. Only wait until you have an object in life, and then you will.”
“How can you say I have not an object in life? Am I not suffering for it at this very moment?”
“You might have the politeness to say that the suffering isn’t so bad because we are here,” suggested Zoe.
“Oh, I am not skilful in putting things politely. I am not literary!” with deep contempt.
“And don’t you wish you were?” asked Maurice lazily.
“No, I am not like Zoe. She says that when she marries, the man must have fallen in love with her through reading her books.”
“And none of them are written yet? Well, my future brother-in-law has plenty of time to spare,” chuckled Maurice.