“You’re right about the story, of course,” said Wilfred doggedly. “It’s hard for me to shake off the romantic stuff that I deal in every day . . . I ought to have a job of some kind. Pegasus becomes spavined in the milkcart. . . .” As he forced himself to speak on, it visibly became less difficult. It was almost cheerfully that he said at last: “I wont have to rewrite the whole thing of course. I can do it in a day if I get an early start. It will be twice as good.” He drew a long breath, and let it escape again. He reached for his pipe. When she knew by the sounds that he was intent upon filling it, Frances Mary darted a look across. Her eyes, still wet, were lighted with fun. After a bit she murmured: “You’re working too hard.” He shook his head. “It isn’t overwork that makes me irritable. It’s the hundreds of little distractions and interruptions; ordinary business of life. When I’m working, it hurts like needles to be dragged back. So by the time night comes . . .” he finished with a shrug. “I know,” she said. “But it’s nothing to worry about,” he went on. “It’s not a disease, but a condition. It’s the inevitable result of our circumstances, and I must just put up with it until they improve, or until the children are old enough for school.” There was a silence. “This story ought to have your name on it, Fanny,” he said. “It’s as much yours as mine.” “Nonsense! I only supplied the critical element.” “Oh, critical or creative, what’s the diff.? They’re interacting. You have supplied a good half of both.” “I’m not being self-sacrificing,” she said, snipping the darning cotton. “Some day I’m going to write again. When the children get bigger. In the meantime I don’t want to be a mere tail to your kite. Far better for me to be forgotten awhile, and come back with a bang!” “What a lot you have given up!” said Wilfred; “. . . for this!” He looked around the family dining-room. “This room is plenty good enough as long as the children overrun it,” said Frances Mary, a little up in arms. “I spoke metaphorically, my angel,” said Wilfred, smiling. “What! Do you think I would change back with that envious old maid?” said Fanny with a whole smile; “me, a woman married to her man! . . . After I have borne three children!” “Too many,” he said gloomily. She laughed. “Sure! My fault! . . . It won’t hurt me not to write for awhile. My book is lying at the bottom of my heart, soaking.” “It will be far better than anything of mine,” he said. “My work has no time to lie in soak.” “Don’t be so silly, or you’ll make me cry. . . . If a book should come of it, it would be entirely due to you, wouldn’t it? You got our children, and kept me while I bore them. That’s better than writing three books. . . . Oh, Wilfred!” she cried in a sudden rapture, “the children! Their little shells they got from us, but their souls are their own! I shall never become accustomed to it!”