A bad review had just the opposite effect. He got so violent about the critics, saying they were men who had failed to create, and any ass could say that elephants were rotten things but it took God to make one, and other awful things like that; or else he'd begin thinking who of his pals read the paper where the criticism was and sometimes even--if she couldn't stop him--write and tell them why the critic was so down on him, which she was half afraid they must think very silly; unless, perhaps, they were clever too, so understood. Once, too, at the end of the first year, he quite frightened her. Among their wedding presents, duly numerous and costly--perhaps extreme in both respects for a suburban home--the one that Helena prized and used most was an enamelled watch. It was the size, roughly, of a shilling: deep translucent blue, decked with tiny pearls, and hung from an appropriate brooch by a thin golden chain. Too thin possibly, for on arrival home one morning from what she called her marketing, the little gewgaw, valued for ornament and use alike, was gone. A few links of the chain hung desolately from a brooch that, robbed of its purpose, now looked almost vulgar. Without thinking, without reflecting that no one was allowed to interrupt him before lunch-time, she found her thoughts turning restfully, in quite a wifely way, to Hubert. She knocked at his door. There was no answer but she had not waited for one. She burst in. The room was full of industry. The very air seemed heavy with a wished-for silence. A clock would have been overpowering. Hubert swung slowly round, with an expression on his face that made it clear he was attempting not to lose touch with some great idea. He kept a finger on the sheet before him. Helena was rather alarmed. She had not seen his study in its present state, and as she stood there at the door a moment, her eyes took in the litter of loose paper; all the open books on table, chairs, and floor; the derelict type-writer, long abandoned as fatal to all inspiration; the velvet coat; and most of all, the worried look. Her plaint shrank instantly to an excuse. "Oh Hugh," she said (she never could quite manage "Hubert"), "I _am_ so sorry, but what do you think?" "I can't imagine," he said in a cold voice so unlike his own. "What? Is your mother dead?" Even Helena, so bad at scenting irony, could guess that he did not mean that. "Of course she isn't," she replied; "but I've lost the lovely little watch she gave me, and I did love it so." She tried not to let too much sorrow come into her voice. He always looked upon her as a baby, anyhow. Surely he was sorry? He said nothing. He looked at her so oddly that she grew alarmed. "Isn't it awful?" she added uneasily.