“You are eternally talking about that book,” he snarled.
“I haven’t mentioned it for a month.”
“Well, you are always looking at me as if I should be at it.”
“Because you used to speak so enthusiastically about it.”
“I am as enthusiastic as ever, but I can’t be forever writing at the book.”
“We have now been married seven months, and you haven’t written a line yet.”
He banged the doors again, and a week afterward he said that spring was a bad time for writing a book.
“One likes to be out-of-doors,” he said, “in spring, watching the trees become green again. Wait till July, when one is glad to be indoors. Then I’ll give four hours to the work every evening.”
Summer came, and then he said:
“It is too hot to write books. Get me another bottle of iced soda-water. I’ll tackle the book in the autumn.”