"Oh, of course." And I disclaimed all intention to sneer at tennis in any way. "All I mean," I said, "is that when you tell me his volleys are getting faster, it doesn't make me want to caper about and cheer enthusiastically." "No?" A little laugh and several miles of silence. And then, as we were nearing Ripley: "By the way, what _would_ make you want to caper about and cheer enthusiastically?" I said it would have to be some news that showed a complete change in Terry's _mental_ attitude. "Such as a return to work--even in a small way?" "Well, yes. That would be the best sign, no doubt." We travelled on a few more miles, and it was in the main street of Cobham that she remarked: "Suppose I told you that he _had_ already begun to work again?" "I should be delighted, of course, if it were true." "It is true." "You _mean_ that? You mean that he's actually gone back to his books--his old research work----" "He's _beginning_ to go." "How--_beginning_?" "I'll tell you in a minute." She drove on till we were out of the village, and then, on the straight stretch of road between Cobham and Esher, she gave me details. "We were playing some hard games yesterday," she said, "and for the first time he beat me--and I'm pretty good, you know." (It was like her to say that, so calmly and confidently.) "I told him that if he went on improving he'd have to enter for some tournaments when the season began, and he said he'd most likely be at the other side of the world before then. We argued about it, and I found out he'd been answering all sorts of advertisements for jobs. Nobody, of course, would have him--without experience, references, or anything.... So after a while I just said--'Look here, Terry, why don't you carry on for the time being with your old scientific work? It's the best job you can do, and probably also it's the only job you'll get....' Better to be frank with him, I thought. He said he'd think about it, but I didn't want him to think about it--I wanted him to begin right away. So when we got back to the hotel I went up to his room (what on earth Taplow thought I don't know), and we began sorting out all his old notebooks and papers. There's at least a fortnight's job in that." "And you really think that he intends to get on with it himself?" "We're both of us going to get on with it. It looks to me as if he's done quite a lot of work in Vienna, only it wants getting together, classifying, typing out, and so on." "And _you're_ going to do it?" "No, _no_.... We're both going to do it, I tell you. I shan't do more than _my_ fair share, anyway. He'll have to dictate while I do the typing. Taplow's lent us a downstairs room, so that we shan't shock the proprieties."