An hour later, however, in spite of their reconciliation, Robert was again moody and depressed. He pushed his tea-cup away from him, and began to wander restlessly about the room, a sure sign with him of mental perturbation. Philippa lay back in her low chair, and watched him furtively. There was a certain exasperation in her face which, if he had not been too preoccupied, Robert would have found easily discernible. “I don’t know what’s the matter with my work,” he was saying, irritably. “The book’s not going a bit.” “Not a bit,” agreed Philippa, with somewhat exasperating calm. “What’s the reason?” demanded Robert, coming to an abrupt pause before her chair. She shrugged her shoulders. “Your dear public’s tired of that particular mild blend, I suppose. You must mix something else. Give it them stronger.” Robert glanced at her. It struck him that her tone was not quite sympathetic. Philippa had an occasional odd trick of dropping the mystic for the pronouncedly colloquial turn of speech. “You speak as though I were a tea merchant or a tobacconist,” he exclaimed. “Don’t you wish you were?” she asked, stretching out her hand for a cigarette. “No,” returned Robert, shortly. At times, also, Philippa was quite disconcertingly materialistic. He never quite knew what to make of her at such moments. It was such a curious lapse from her usual lofty standpoint. She saw his bewilderment, and after a moment put out her hand to him. “Dear, I know how it frets you as an artist, but, after all, even artists must live. And to do that they must condescend to the stupid multitude. Why not write a society novel, Robert?” She sat upright in her chair. “With lots of titles, you know----” “And the women spiteful enough,” put in Robert, with a short laugh. “I’ve had that advice once to-day--from Lady Wilmot. I scarcely expected it from you, Philippa.” She rose, and began to put the tea-things together. “You are unreasonable,” she began, coldly, after a slight pause. “First you grumble because your book doesn’t suit the public, and then when I suggest something that probably will, you turn upon me.” He did not immediately reply, and when he spoke, Philippa recognized with a flash of anger that he had not been attending to her words. “Do you know that Cecily’s been writing a book?” he asked, suddenly. “It’s to be out to-morrow.” “Oh?” she returned, coldly. “What a lot of scribblers there are in the world, to be sure.” Robert felt annoyed. He parted coldly from Philippa, and taking a hansom in the Brompton road, drove to his club. On the stairs he met Travers, a friend of his. Travers looked perturbed and angry. “Women are the very deuce!” he exclaimed, in reply to an interrogation. “I agree,” said Robert, with fervor. CHAPTER XVI Late in the afternoon of the following Tuesday, Robert sat over the fire in his study, reading his wife’s book.