“That’s automatic. My ears are yours. Go on.” Five minutes later, Wilfred turned over the last sheet. He tipped the tin shade of the lamp in order to direct the light more fully on Frances Mary’s side of the table; and reached for his pipe. “That’s about all I can do to that,” he said, with an after gleam of pleasure in his eye. “There are beautiful things in it,” said Frances Mary. Wilfred was pulled up all standing. “Things?” he said, looking across at her, flicked on the raw. “Then you don’t think . . . ?” “Something wrong,” she said, avoiding his glance; thoughtfully biting the darning needle. “Oh, for God’s sake . . . !” said Wilfred, putting down his pipe. “Why throw the second girl into the man’s arms?” “But I’ve made it clear from the beginning that she was the right one for him.” “I know; but the real business of the story is between the other two; and the pleasant touch at the end takes the edge off its grim reality.” “A happy ending is not in itself inartistic,” said Wilfred combatively. “Of course not! But in this case . . .” “I could cut out their actual coming together,” said Wilfred, very reluctantly; “and just leave the second girl in the offing . . .” She shook her head. “The suggestion would be the same.” “It wouldn’t sell,” said Wilfred sullenly. “This one was not supposed to be a seller,” said Fanny. “This was your holiday.” “Damn it! if I cut her out altogether, I’d have to rewrite the whole thing!” he cried excitedly. Frances Mary said nothing. “Why didn’t you say so in the beginning?” “It just struck me, Wilfred.” He jumped up, half beside himself. “All my work has gone for nothing now!” he burst out. “I work for days and you destroy it with a word! You know I can’t afford to spend any more time on something that wont sell!” He flung out of the room. Frances Mary, pricking her upper lip with the needle, sat looking at the door as if her whole being was outside it. She had been taught that it would make matters worse for her to follow. For many minutes she sat listening and waiting. Wilfred came in again, horribly self-conscious. Marching up to his wife, and tipping her head back, he kissed her lips. She kept her hands squeezed together, and held her tongue; but could not help her lips from clinging. “I’m sorry,” said Wilfred with a ridiculous hangdog air. “I’m so damned ill-tempered I’m a burden to myself!” He returned to his chair, keeping his face averted from the light. Frances Mary’s head was lowered, and tears dropped on the stocking; but her mouth was happily curved.