twelve hours a day, day in and day out for months at a
time. Look at your husband. He has tried it. Does he sleep well?"

"No."

"Has he a hearty appetite?"

"No."

"Is he a light-hearted, cheery sort of chap to have about the place?"

"He's naturally tired, after his winter's work," said Doria.

"He's played out," said I, "and if you are a wise woman, you'll take him
away for a couple of months' rest, and when he gets back, see that he
works at lower pressure."

Doria promised to do her best; but she sighed.

"You don't realise Adrian's iron will."

Once more I recognised with a shock that I did not know my Adrian. I
used to think one could blow the thistledown fellow about whithersoever
one pleased. Of the two, Doria seemed to have unquestionably the
stronger will-power.

"Surely," said I, "you can twist him round your little finger."

Doria sighed again--and a wanly indulgent smile played about her lips.

"You two dear people are so sensible, that it makes me almost angry to
see how you can't begin to understand Adrian. As a man, of course I have
a certain influence over him. But as an artist--how can I? He's a thing
apart from me altogether. I know perfectly well that thousands of
artists' wives wreck their happiness through sheer, stupid jealousy of
their husbands' art. I'm not such a narrow-minded, contemptible woman."
She threw her little head up proudly. "I should loathe myself if I
grudged one hour that Adrian gave to his work instead of to me."

This time Barbara and I sighed, for we realised how vain had been our
arguments. Our considerably greater knowledge of life, our stark
common-sense, our deep affection for Adrian counted as naught beside the
fact that we had no experience whatever in the rearing of a genius.

That word "genius" came too often from Doria's lips. At first it
irritated me; then I heard it with morbid detestation. In the course of
a more or less intimate conversation with Adrian, I let slip a mild
expression of my feelings. He groaned sympathetically.

"I wish to heaven she wouldn't do it," said he. "It puts a man into such
a horrible false position towards himself. It's beautiful of her, of
course--it's her love for me. But it gets on my nerves. Instead of
sitting down at my desk with nothing in my mind but my day's work to
slog through, I hear her voice and I have to say to myself, 'Go to. I am
a genius. I mustn't write like any common fellow. I must produce the
work of