“Very dull ones, I assure you. I have striven to improve them. A harder task than the busy insect’s.”
“Gathering honey out of blue-books?”
He indicated a couple of government publications lying open, face downwards, on an arm-chair.
“Horrid things!” cried Irene, pouncing on them and stowing them beneath a chiffonnier on the other side of the room. “I am tired of them. Let us be happy this evening, and forget their existence.”
A glance of surprised questioning met her. Usually she was eager to talk of her pursuits.
“I have a great need of happiness, you know, Hugh,” she continued, rather defiantly. “I could suck up an ocean of it, like an infinite sponge.”
Then she laughed, and turning away to her writing table swept the loose sheets of manuscript lying on it into a drawer.
“You see, I’m beginning to cultivate nerves.”
He watched her somewhat anxiously. She was looking pale this evening, and her grey eyes were more lustrous than usual. A faint pearl-coloured gown unrelieved by a spot of brighter colour accentuated the delicacy of her face.
“You are overworking yourself, Renie. Needlessly. You want a holiday—a change to sunshine and blue skies.”