"It isn't a thing to be dismissed without reflection," he began.
"I thought you wanted to devote yourself entirely to the drama?"
"Of course."
"And you've always said there was nothing so killing to creative work as any sort of journalism."
"This wouldn't take more than a day or two each week, and twenty-five dollars a letter would be convenient while we are waiting for our cards to turn up."
"Oh, very well! If you are so fickle as all that, I don't know what to say to you." She put the letter down on the table before him, and went out of the room.
He tried to write, but with the hurt of what he felt her unkindness he could not, and after a certain time he feigned an errand into their room, where she had shut herself from him, and found her lying down. "Are you sick?" he asked, coldly.
"Not at all," she answered. "I suppose one may lie down without being sick, as you call it. I should say ill, myself."
"I'm so glad you're not sick that I don't care what you call it."
He was going out, when she spoke again: "I didn't know you cared particularly, you are always so much taken up with your work. I suppose, if you wrote those letters for the Abstract, you need never think of me at all, whether I was ill or well."