"No sensible man would ever marry a literary woman, however much he cared for her. If a friend of mine was going to marry a lady novelist, I would at once go out and buy him a millstone—yes, and I could fix it for him. It would be an obvious duty."
"Oh, Mr. Didcott!" exclaimed this very young lady, impressed, "are they as bad as all that?"
He nodded darkly.
"But, Mr. Didcott, if a woman has genius——"
He glanced up.
"Take your case, Miss Winder. You have genius. Go on, and you may become a famous novelist. On the other hand, you may marry, and live happily ever afterwards; but you cannot do both."
"I think," Miss Winder observed, ingenuously, "that I shall not write any more."
He pressed her hand.
"Elsie," he began, passionately, "there is something I want to ask you. Oh! Elsie——"
And then the door opened, and the maid came in to say that a man wished to speak to Miss Winder.