The man glanced up, more surprise than apology upon his face. He was in a conciliatory mood; his wife’s voice was more than ominous of injured sentiment.
“I have been writing,” he said; “the hour after dinner is one of my most enlightened periods. My imagination kindles.”
“Imagination!”
The twinge of irony was admirable.
“You surely don’t consider such stuff literature?”
“I have hopes for myself.”
The lady tittered amiably and exhaled transcendent pity.
“Your conceit is really very amusing,” she remarked. “It is really too funny to think that you take yourself seriously. You—an author! My dear Gabriel, you are really too absurd.”
Now a man perhaps is never so sensitive as in the matter of mental acumen. Scoff at his ability as at a fond and fatuous delusion, a ridiculous piece of egotism, and you bid fair to touch his vanity to the quick. You may insult his figure with impunity, but it is dangerous to blaspheme against his mind.
“My dear girl, I hardly expect you to sympathize with me on such subjects.”