For days the sound of Geoffrey's typewriter could be heard in the hall. "Does it disturb Peggy?" he asked Anne late one night as he met her on the stairs.
"No; her room is too far away. You were so good to send her the lovely toys. She adores the plush pussy cat."
"I like cats. They are coy—and caressing. Dogs are too frankly adoring."
"The eternal masculine." She smiled at him. "Is your work coming on?"
"I have a first chapter. May I read it to you?"
"Please—I should love it."
She was glad to sit quietly by the big fireplace. With eyes half-closed, she listened to the opening sentences. But as he proceeded, her listlessness vanished. And when he laid down the manuscript she was leaning forward, her slim hands clasped tensely on her knees, her eyes wide with interest.
"Oh, oh," she told him, "how do you know it all—how can you make them live and breathe—like that?"
For a moment he did not answer, then he said, "I don't know how I do it. No artist knows how he creates. It is like Life and Death—and other miracles. If I could keep to this pace, I'd have a masterpiece. But I shan't keep to it."
"Why not?"