Toni was not altogether satisfied with the explanation and asked herself remorsefully what she had said to vex him; but she could not think of anything which would be likely to give offence to her host, and decided, finally, that he had spoken truthfully. She could not know how intimately the tragedy of Herrick's life was bound up with the thought of a string of shining pearls; and her very unconsciousness served to show the man she had spoken in all innocence. "Your husband must be very busy with this review in hand," he said presently, remembering Barry's entreaty to him to examine the situation for himself. "Does he work at home or has he to spend much time in town?" "Oh, he does both," she said, relieved by his return to his former manner. "He is in town to-day, but he has been at home a good deal lately." "I see. It must be rather dull for you when he is shut up writing," he went on tentatively. "Writers and men of letters generally like to be left to themselves pretty much." "Oh, I don't think my husband does," said Toni blithely. "I often go in and sit with him while he works, and if I promise to go to bed early he sometimes brings his papers into the drawing-room at night." Herrick felt a sudden spasm of amusement, mingled with a distinct impulse of sympathy for the unfortunate writer. "Oh! I should have thought it would be too disturbing to work in the room with anyone else--even one's wife," he added with a smile. "Why should it be?" Toni opened eyes of amazement. "I sit quite still--I hardly ever speak--and Jock and I--my dog--play little games together ever so quietly." "You don't help him in his work?" "No." She shook her head. "I'm not clever enough for that. I do typing for him sometimes, but even then I'm not really much use." "You are not an expert, perhaps?" "Oh, I can use the typewriter all right--I've had heaps of practice. But when it comes to revising things, sort of making up an article out of rough notes, I'm no good. To begin with I can never understand what the things are about, and I always get quotations hopelessly mixed." "I see." In spite of himself Herrick laughed. "You are not a great reader, then?" "No--I hate books," she replied frankly. "Somehow it seems a waste of time to read when you can be doing nicer things. Besides, my husband doesn't like to see me reading what he calls trash, and I simply can't get through the things he gives me!" "Well, after all life's the most interesting book of all--when one's young," he said indulgently. "But I'm afraid you'll wish you'd developed a taste for reading when you get like me, middle-aged and dull." "But you aren't dull----" she was beginning eagerly, when a loud knock at the back door of the bungalow interrupted her sentence, and she broke off hastily. "That'll be my messenger back," said Herrick, rising. "With garments for you, I suppose. I'll go and see."