Amy twisted her fingers together impatiently.
'Edwin, let me tell you something. You are getting too fond of speaking in a discouraging way. Now, why should you do so? Idon't like it. It has one disagreeable effect on me, and that is, when people ask me about you, how you are getting on, I don't quite know how to answer. They can't help seeing that I am uneasy. I speak so differently from what I used to.'
'Do you, really?'
'Indeed I can't help it. As I say, it's very much your own fault.'
'Well, but granted that I am not of a very sanguine nature, and that I easily fall into gloomy ways of talk, what is Amy here for?'
'Yes, yes. But--'
'But?'
'I am not here only to try and keep you in good spirits, am I?'
She asked it prettily, with a smile like that of maidenhood.
'Heaven forbid! I oughtn't to have put it in that absolute way. Iwas half joking, you know. But unfortunately it's true that Ican't be as light-spirited as I could wish. Does that make you impatient with me?'
'A little. I can't help the feeling, and I ought to try to overcome it. But you must try on your side as well. Why should you have said that thing just now?'
'You're quite right. It was needless.'
'A few weeks ago I didn't expect you to be cheerful. Things began to look about as bad as they could. But now that you've got a volume finished, there's hope once more.'
Hope? Of what quality? Reardon durst not say what rose in his thoughts. 'A very small, poor hope. Hope of money enough to struggle through another half year, if indeed enough for that.'
He had learnt that Amy was not to be told the whole truth about anything as he himself saw it. It was a pity. To the ideal wife a man speaks out all that is in him; she had infinitely rather share his full conviction than be treated as one from whom facts must be disguised. She says: 'Let us face the worst and talk of it together, you and I.' No, Amy was not the ideal wife from that point of view. But the moment after this half-reproach had traversed his consciousness he condemned himself; and looked with the joy of love into her clear eyes.
'Yes, there's hope once more, my dearest. No more gloomy talk to-night! I have read you something, now you shall read something to me; it is a long time since I delighted myself with listening to you. What shall it be?'
'I feel rather too tired to-night.'
'Do you?'
'I have had to look after Willie so much. But read me some more Homer; I shall be very glad to listen.'
Reardon reached for the book again, but not readily. His face showed disappointment. Their evenings together had never been the same since the birth of the child; Willie was always an excuse--valid enough --for Amy's feeling tired. The little boy had come between him and the mother, as must always be the case in poor homes, most of all where the poverty is relative. Reardon could not pass the subject without a remark, but he tried to speak humorously.
'There ought to be a huge public creche in London. It's monstrous that an educated mother should have to be nursemaid.'
'But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche, indeed! No child of mine should go to any such place.'
There it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child. That was love; whereas-- But then maternal love was a mere matter of course.
'As soon as you get two or three hundred pounds for a book,' she added, laughing, 'there'll be no need for me to give so much time.'
'Two or three hundred pounds!' He repeated it with a shake of the head. 'Ah, if that were possible!'
'But that's really a paltry sum. What would fifty novelists you could name say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a book? How much do you suppose even Markland got for his last?'
'Didn't sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty.'
'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book ceases to be talked of.'
'Never mind. I'm sick of the word "pounds."'
'So am I.'
She sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence.
'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of money?'
'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades, and Ajax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'
So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat with folded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the epic humour. In a few minutes it was as if no difficulties threatened their life. Every now and then Reardon looked up from his translating with a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined.
When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his wife's chair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers.
'Amy!'
'Yes, dear?'
'Do you still love me a little?'
'Much more than a little.'
'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?'
'Is it so bad as all that?'
'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the proofs will be a martyrdom.'
'Oh, but why? why?'
'It's the best I can do, dearest. So you don't love me enough to hear that calmly.'
'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's dreadful to me to think of what they will say in the reviews.'
'Curse the reviews!'
His mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened face, trembling angrily.
'I want you to promise me something, Amy. You won't read a single one of the notices unless it is forced upon your attention. Now, promise me that. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not worth a glance of your eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if Iknow you read all the contempt that will be poured on me.'
'I'm sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people, our friends, read it. That's the worst.'
