He laughed. "I'd say them for ten years as penance if it did any good. But now you've told me, now I know you know, it's easier. When I get selfish, when I begin forgetting _your_ side of the thing, you'll have to tell me; see? And if you don't, well I've still got your copy of _The Confessions of_----" But she stopped his mouth with a kiss. "Hugh," she cried, going to the table and taking up the paper which had changed their lives, "we'll never mention that vile book again, and as for those who do"--she tore the paper savagely across. "And you must _not_ say you are selfish. It's only that your work----" "My work!" interrupted Hubert, with a discordant laugh. "I've done none this last week. I've thought--thought about myself, and that's good when you're forty but it isn't pleasant. Do you know what is wrong with me?" "Nothing," she said gaily, for he spoke with a cavernal gloom and she desired to change his mood. He utterly ignored her. "I took a long time finding myself out," he answered. "That's all. Everybody starts, about eighteen, thinking he's a genius and bound to end up on Olympus; then about twenty-five, we settle we're just common fools and take a city job. But I did not. I've gone on in what they call a fool's paradise; feeding upon praise and threatening those who did the other thing, until I really thought that I was some one great! Boyd always _said_ that I was undeveloped; there was something lacking.... But I've got it now. I think I got it when you cut me out as author!" "Don't, please," she cried, "you mustn't talk like that." "I must," he answered gloomily. "I've given half my life to writing--and only just found out that I can't write!" She came to him then. "Look here, dear," she said, taking his arm in quite a mother's way, "you're just beginning your success. Men never _do_ succeed till forty. You've just found yourself. You're going to do splendid things and you will let me help." "What? You and I collaborate?" Was there a tinge of the old-time suspicion? "No," she said quickly. "I shan't ever write again; that's done with; we'll just talk the stories over when we're out upon our dear old rambles, and then, you see, you'll get the woman's view as well. And possibly I may get plots sometimes, although I couldn't write them." "Then we'll sign Helena and Hubert Brett," he said in swift penitence, forcing himself to nobility. "That really does sound excellent!" "No," she replied slowly, "you must always sign. You see your name is known. Helena Brett has never written anything, and Zoë Baskerville is dead--thank goodness!" She forced herself to smile. She must remain the amateur! That touch of pity, she knew, must be there if things were ever to be right again....