A man will always give or find occupation for a woman, and in some small way or another the whole of Eve’s time was taken up in meeting his needs and wishes. She was obliged to forego many of the happy book hours she used to spend in order that the wheels could run smoothly and silently. This in itself was a very great sacrifice, for she had loved her reading, and grubbing with pots and pans, or bargaining with tradesfolk, was a sorry substitute. “But it’s only for a while,” she comforted herself. “One day—” and her thoughts floated out to the sun-lit hills and the sweeping purple heather of the moors. V One evening Wynne arrived home and announced that he had left the stage. “I am going to write a play,” he said, “and I shall want all my time.” He had not taken into consideration that with the loss of his theatre salary their finances would be seriously crippled. Of late there had been rather more money than usual, and Eve had entertained the hope of engaging a maid to come in and do the rougher work, but with this announcement that happy prospect took immediate wings. A play would certainly take several weeks to write, and probably months or even years to place. In the meantime there were three or four outstanding sales of stories and articles which would realize a total of thirty or forty pounds. Yet, although these considerations arose very clearly in Eve’s mind, she only nodded and expressed enthusiasm for the idea. And so, with a great deal of energy and intention, Wynne attacked the play, and Eve rolled up her sleeves and washed the greasy plates, and blacked the stove and cooked the meals, and did the meagre housekeeping, and many things she liked not, on little more than nothing a week. It was strenuous work, but she carried it out cheerfully and unostentatiously, and contrived to provide enough to keep his mind from being worried with sordid considerations. Sometimes—not so often as she wished—he read what he had written, and they talked over the human considerations that go to make a play. He himself was most enthusiastic about the work, and to a great extent she shared his belief. There was, however, a certain chilliness in his lines and expressed thoughts, which by the gentlest tact she strove to warm. It was a delicate enough operation in all conscience, for there is no machinery more difficult to guide than an artist’s mind, and none that demands overhaul more constantly. Hers was the task of tightening the bolts of a moving vehicle—one attended with grave risks to the mechanic. She took her satisfaction after the manner of a mechanic, by noting the smoother running and more even purr of the machine. As they had determined upon their wedding day, the physical, and even the spiritual, side of their union was in abeyance. Of sweet intimacies and gentle understandings there were none. It was the work first, the work last, and the work which took precedence to all.