Gabriel closed the door gently, picked up the book, appropriated a chair, and sat down. He was even impolitic enough to yawn behind his hand. The storm seethed two paces away, gathering satirical bitterness over the listless fire. “I hope you have amused yourself.” The man glanced up, more surprise than apology upon his face. He was in a conciliatory mood; his wife’s voice was more than ominous of injured sentiment. “I have been writing,” he said; “the hour after dinner is one of my most enlightened periods. My imagination kindles.” “Imagination!” The twinge of irony was admirable. “You surely don’t consider such stuff literature?” “I have hopes for myself.” The lady tittered amiably and exhaled transcendent pity. “Your conceit is really very amusing,” she remarked. “It is really too funny to think that you take yourself seriously. You—an author! My dear Gabriel, you are really too absurd.” Now a man perhaps is never so sensitive as in the matter of mental acumen. Scoff at his ability as at a fond and fatuous delusion, a ridiculous piece of egotism, and you bid fair to touch his vanity to the quick. You may insult his figure with impunity, but it is dangerous to blaspheme against his mind. “My dear girl, I hardly expect you to sympathize with me on such subjects.” “Naturally you consider me beneath your notice.” “You are not a competent critic.” “No, I am a woman with common-sense.” Gabriel stared hard at the fire. “Can I expect you to understand the deeper side of my soul?” he said. “Well, dear, the domestic side is shallow enough for me to form a fair estimate of the literary.” The man winced despite himself. “You are very kind,” he said. “I only want to protest against your abominable selfishness.” “Selfishness!” The wife flung herself back upon her cushions. “Perhaps you think yourself insulted,” she said. “You marry a woman, neglect her, treat her to inconceivable dulness on all possible occasions. You give her the residuum of your intellect, the lees of your leisure. Books, books, twaddle, twaddle, from morning to night. I did not marry a library or a second-hand book-store. Do you ever consider my position?” The man still stared into the grate. “I have given you a home and myself,” he said. “You cannot expect me to dangle at your skirts all day long. I have lived much with books and my own thoughts till now; you must understand that I cannot give up all that was great in my mind before our marriage. Is all the selfishness on my side?” “At any rate, all the dulness seems on mine.” “What more do you desire me to give you?” “A little consideration might be courteous. Am I to be boxed up in a country-house with a tea merchant’s son who thinks he is a genius and leaves me to exist on novels and coffee. You forget that I am not a frump of fifty. I want to live, although you have married me.” “Live, by all means,” said the man. “I want some pleasure in life.” “Excitement and fashionable bonbons, I suppose.”