Thyrsis had his artist’s standard of perfection. Of course, he could never actually be satisfied with what he did; but at least he could feel that it was the best he was equal to--he could get a real and honest sense of exhaustion for himself. But now, the moment that he faced the problem fairly, he saw he could never get that real and honest sense of exhaustion again. He was dragged up to the issue and forced to face it instantly. The pressure of circumstances upon him was overwhelming; and he had to make up his mind to do something he had never done before--instead of really writing his books, to do the best he could with them! Yet, inevitable as this was, and clearly as he saw it, he could not make up his mind to it. In reality, he never did make up his mind to it. He did it, and in his inmost heart he knew that he was doing it; but all the time he was trying to deny it, was wrestling with agony and despair in his soul in the effort to do something else. He would go away in the morning and try to think about the book; and just when he would get started, it would be time for dinner, and there would be the image of Corydon waiting for him. And so he would go home, and go back in the afternoon--and when he had got started again, it would be dark. The next day, having explained his trouble, he would take his lunch away with him; but in the forenoon there would come a drenching thunder-storm, and he would have to go back again. Or he would try to work in the tent at night; and the wind would howl and blow the lamp so that he could not put his mind on anything. Nor did it avail him to rail at himself, to tell himself that he was a fool for being at the mercy of such mishaps. It was none the less a fact that he was at the mercy of them, and that he could no longer give himself up to the sway of his imagination. And always there was Corydon, yearning for his companionship. It had always been their idea that they should do the work together; so completely would they be fused in the fire of love, that she would share his soul states and write parts of his books. But now that idea had to be abandoned; and this was _her_ tragedy. “I have to sit and think of my health!” she would exclaim. “It isn’t your health, dear,” he would plead; “it’s the health of the child!” “I know that. But then, am I always to sit at home and be placid, while you go away to wrestle with the angels?” “Not always, Corydon,” he said. “This will pass--” “If I do,” she cried, “I only stay to wrestle with the demons. And is that so very good for a pregnant woman?” “My dear!” he protested. “It’s just as I said!” she went on. “I ought not to have had the child! I’m only a school-girl, with a school-girl’s tasks. And I try and try, but I can’t help it--everything within me rebels at the cares of mother-hood.” “That’s one mood, dear,” he said. “But you know that’s not true always.”