e,
poking the fire fiercely, that he would not. He had asked Kenneth
whether it would be mean to turn Ruth out, as she herself
suggested--and he had at once embarked on a long rigmarole about dear
wives, winter sunsets, kiddies, teapots, and all sorts of things....

With a last jab at the fire he dismissed the interview just over from
his mind and settled down to think. He never ought to have asked that
monomaniac along. He might have guessed what he would say.

Ruth was a nuisance, frankly; she jarred upon him constantly: their
life was one long quarrel nowadays; but--how would solitude affect his
work?

That was the big question.

To Hubert Brett his work was life, and nothing much else counted. He
was a man who valued success less for its achievement than for its
reward. He liked to be pointed out as one who wrote (he often was, in
little country places); he enjoyed meeting men and women whose names
were famous far and wide; he loved press-cuttings, revelled in his
photograph when reproduced, and was almost physically upset when he
received a real old-fashioned, slashing review. To anything of this
sort he always replied, quoting the opinions of some other papers, and
"relying on the editor's sense of justice to give his letter
publicity." Papers, in fact, that liked neither his novels nor his
letters, had ceased to notice the first-named, hoping to avoid the
last: and he was glad of this decision. Letters from unknown readers
were shown to all his friends, who also had the privilege of reading
the longest reviews, left out upon his mantel-piece; though when they
took them up he would always protest, "Oh, that'll bore you: it's only
a few stray press-cuttings." He liked at dinner-parties to sit next
women who had read his books (the dear, kind, tactful sex!), and asked
him how he wrote. He had, in fact, published his first book under a
pseudonym (his father, as a clergyman, naturally objecting to the real
name being used), but found that no one recognised him as the author
under his own different name. He therefore, on his father's death, had
paid some pounds and taken the name Brett permanently as his own for
ordinary use. His sister, who was like most women in being petulant as
to trifles but mild about the things that matter, had submitted from
being Ruth Brettesley to become mere Ruth Brett. Now, when he dined
out, Hubert often found that women next him would ask if he was "the
author." It neve