rstanding between you.

It was a hard and miserable thing that she should have to leave you for
a time, and you couldn't face the necessity in a just spirit. Don't you
think there's some truth in this way of looking at it?'

'As a woman, it was her part to soften the hateful necessity; she made
it worse.'

'I'm not sure that you don't demand too much of her. Unhappily, I know
little or nothing of delicately-bred women, but I have a suspicion that
one oughtn't to expect heroism in them, any more than in the women of
the lower classes. I think of women as creatures to be protected. Is a
man justified in asking them to be stronger than himself?'

'Of course,' replied Reardon, 'there's no use in demanding more than
a character is capable of. But I believed her of finer stuff. My
bitterness comes of the disappointment.'

'I suppose there were faults of temper on both sides, and you saw at
last only each other's weaknesses.'

'I saw the truth, which had always been disguised from me.' Biffen
persisted in looking doubtful, and in secret Reardon thanked him for it.

As the realist progressed with his novel, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' he read
the chapters to Reardon, not only for his own satisfaction, but in great
part because he hoped that this example of productivity might in the end
encourage the listener to resume his own literary tasks. Reardon found
much to criticise in his friend's work; it was noteworthy that he
objected and condemned with much less hesitation than in his better
days, for sensitive reticence is one of the virtues wont to be assailed
by suffering, at all events in the weaker natures. Biffen purposely
urged these discussions as far as possible, and doubtless they benefited
Reardon for the time; but the defeated novelist could not be induced to
undertake another practical illustration of his own views. Occasionally
he had an impulse to plan a story, but an hour's turning it over in his
mind sufficed to disgust him. His ideas seemed barren, vapid; it would
have been impossible for him to write half a dozen pages, and the mere
thought of a whole book overcame him with the dread of insurmountable
difficulties, immeasurable toil.

In time, however, he was able to read. He had a pleasure in
contemplating the little collection of sterling books that alone
remained to him from his library; the sight of many volumes would have
been a weariness, but these few--when he was again able to think
of books at all--were