For Eve it was a lonely life—a life of unceasing mental and manual exercise. She strove with head and hand that his spirit might talk with posterity. Sometimes there were knocks, but she took them bravely, looking always to the future to repay. One morning in the early summer Wynne fretfully threw down his pen. The whitey-gold sunshine was calling of bluebell woods and cloud shadows racing over the downs. “I must get out,” he said—“out in the fields somewhere.” Eve filled her lungs expectantly. “Let’s go to Richmond,” she said. “Do you remember the first night I came back, and we said we’d go there one day and eat apple turnovers on the way home?” “Yes, oh yes.” “It’ud be gorgeous to have some fresh air, and we could make plans and—” “Yes, but not today. I want to think today—I should be better alone.” It was foolish to be hurt, and gently she answered: “I shouldn’t stop you thinking.” “Some other day, then. This morning I’ll go alone. That last act is bothering me. I shall bring back a fierce hunger for you to appease.” That was all. He reached for his hat and walked to the door. As he laid his hand on the knob she said: “Think of me bending over the gas-ring, Wynne.” He turned and looked queerly at her without replying. The angle of her speech was new and unexpected. Then his cleverness suggested: “I shall think of you as you’ll look when our honeymoon begins.” In an instant she was disarmed and had stretched out a friendly hand. “I wanted to be level with the future for one day,” she said. “Out in the fields we are as rich as we shall ever be.” He nodded. “The leaves would be no greener if all fame were ours,” he answered; and added, “but they’d seem greener. Come, if you like.” “No, I’ll stay.” She gave his hand a small pressure. He looked down on it as it lay in his palm. There was dirt upon her fingers from the scouring of pots and pans. As he noted this he laughed shortly. “We must employ a Court manicurist when our Day dawns,” he said. “I could not worship a queen whose hands were soiled. Expect me about six.” He closed the door behind him. Who can pretend to fathom the deeps of a woman’s mind. Long after he had gone, Eve stood looking at her hands with solemn, frightened eyes. VI The manner of Wynne Rendall’s coming into prominence was fortuitous. It happened a little over two years after his marriage, and, broadly speaking, was engineered by Eve. As a result of some unexpected sales to American publishers a few extra pounds slipped through the lodging letter-box, and Eve insisted he should spend some of these in joining a club of good standing. “You’ve been in the dark too long, Wynne. A writer of plays must be known by the people who produce them, by the better actors and critics. They must get used to seeing you before they will believe in you.”