e was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly two
years, and had a child ten months old.

As for her dress, it was unpretending in fashion and colour, but
of admirable fit. Every detail of her appearance denoted scrupulous
personal refinement. She walked well; you saw that the foot, however
gently, was firmly planted. When she seated herself her posture was
instantly graceful, and that of one who is indifferent about support for
the back.

'What is the matter?' she began. 'Why can't you get on with the story?'

It was the tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of affection, not
at all of tender solicitude.

Reardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do so
directly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round to the
back of her chair, and bent his face upon her shoulder.

'Amy--'

'Well.'

'I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write any more.'

'Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your writing?'

'Perhaps I am only out of sorts. But I begin to be horribly afraid.
My will seems to be fatally weakened. I can't see my way to the end of
anything; if I get hold of an idea which seems good, all the sap has
gone out of it before I have got it into working shape. In these last
few months, I must have begun a dozen different books; I have been
ashamed to tell you of each new beginning. I write twenty pages,
perhaps, and then my courage fails. I am disgusted with the thing, and
can't go on with it--can't! My fingers refuse to hold the pen. In mere
writing, I have done enough to make much more than three volumes; but
it's all destroyed.'

'Because of your morbid conscientiousness. There was no need to destroy
what you had written. It was all good enough for the market.'

'Don't use that word, Amy. I hate it!'

'You can't afford to hate it,' was her rejoinder, in very practical
tones. 'However it was before, you must write for the market now. You
have admitted that yourself.'

He kept silence.

'Where are you?' she went on to ask. 'What have you actually done?'

'Two short chapters of a story I can't go on with. The three volumes lie
before me like an interminable desert. Impossible to get through them.
The idea is stupidly artificial, and I haven't a living character in
it.'

'The public don't care whether the characters are living or not.--Don't
stand behind me, like that; it's such an awkward way of talking. Come
and sit down.'

He drew a