She knew what they must mean to him and once again her soul veered round to Ruth's mood of pity--pity and regret. It was her fault, this, she knew that; he had been right all through. He was so right and strong, and that was partly where her anger lay. She could have forgiven a weak idiot like Ally better.

She looked down at him; wavering, torn by two instincts, doubtful.

She looked. She could not see his face, but on the blotting-pad there dropped two tears.

She had not known that men could cry. Those two damp spots that spread on the green pad beneath her fascinated eyes told her of what his agony of tortured pride must be--and brought back to her memory those words of Ruth's; "He's nothing but a child: be gentle."

He was _not_ strong and right. He did _not_ have a soul of iron, this man: _not_ despise her as a weakling. He was weak himself. He was a child and wanted sympathy....

Some other words of his came drifting back to her as she stared blankly at those spots of darker green and he sat with his head averted--was it in anger or in shame?

He never would have married a woman who wrote: hated clever women! All that came back to her. Had she played fair? He wanted somebody to help, encourage; could she be his rival? For better, for worse----

Suddenly she found herself talking.

"Hugh," she was saying, back on the words of a yet earlier rehearsal, "I'm so sorry. I've been such a beast, and I _have_ wanted so to do the proper thing. I've been a beastly wife to you, and now I've come to say you're right. I can't finish the new book; I can't get on at all." She paused and said deliberately; "I'm just an amateur."

And in one moment, before she had finished, he was on his feet. He had his arms round her with all of his old love, and held her at arms'

length, and looked at her with pride, as though she had just spoken of anything except her failure.

"Darling little girl," he said, "don't, don't, you make me feel so bad.

Don't say you've been a beast. Do you think _I_ don't know what I've been to you? Do you think I don't know how true the whole book was?"

She smiled back at him, and he never saw the little bitterness or pathos there was in it, as she heard his old word of tolerant affection--"little."

He had not used that word for ages....

He drew her to him and kissed her very lovingly. "Oh, Helena," he murmured, close beside her ear, "if only you knew how I've missed you, how miserable I've been, how I have loathed myself. You splendid people think we horrid selfish beasts don't realise our vices. Oh yes, we do though, those of us who think, but we hope no one else observes them. I knew that I had bullied Ruth, sacrificed her life to mine, and I vowed when I married you--but what's the use? You never change your nature, and I'm just a selfish swine."

"Don't say such awful things, Hugh," she said gently.

He laughed. "I'd say them for ten years as penance if it did any good.

But now you've told me, now I know you know, it's easier. When I get selfish, when I begin forgetting _your_ side of the thing, you'll have to tell me; see? And if you don't, well I've still got your copy of _The Confessions of_----"

But she stopped his mouth with a kiss. "Hugh," she cried, going to the table and taking up the paper which had changed their lives, "we'll never mention that vile book again, and as for those who do"--she tore the paper savagely across. "And you must _not_ say you are selfish.

It's only that your work----"

"My work!" interrupted Hubert, with a discordant laugh. "I've done none this last week. I've thought--thought about myself, and that's good when you're forty but it isn't pleasant. Do you know what is wrong with me?"

"Nothing," she said gaily, for he spoke with a cavernal gloom and she desired to change his mood.

He utterly ignored her. "I took a long time finding myself out," he answered. "That's all. Everybody starts, about eighteen, thinking he's a genius and bound to end up on Olympus; then about twenty-five, we settle we're just common fools and take a city job. But I did not.

I've gone on in what they call a fool's paradise; feeding upon praise and threatening those who did the other thing, until I really thought that I was some one great! Boyd always _said_ that I was undeveloped; there was something lacking.... But I've got it now. I think I got it when you cut me out as author!"

"Don't, please," she cried, "you mustn't talk like that."

"I must," he answered gloomily. "I've given half my life to writing--and only just found out that I can't write!"

She came to him then. "Look here, dear," she said, taking his arm in quite a mother's way, "you're just beginning your success. Men never _do_ succeed till forty. You've just found yourself. You're going to do splendid things and you will let me help."

"What? You and I collaborate?" Was there a tinge of the old-time suspicion?

"No," she said quickly. "I shan't ever write again; that's done with; we'll just talk the stories over when we're out upon our dear old rambles, and then, you see, you'll get the woman's view as well. And possibly I may get plots sometimes, although I couldn't write them."

"Then we'll sign Helena and Hubert Brett," he said in swift penitence, forcing himself to n.o.bility. "That really does sound excellent!"

"No," she replied slowly, "you must always sign. You see your name is known. Helena Brett has never written anything, and Zoe Baskerville is dead--thank goodness!" She forced herself to smile. She must remain the amateur! That touch of pity, she knew, must be there if things were ever to be right again....

Perhaps he guessed a little, for suddenly he clasped her in his arms again. "My G.o.d, Helena," he cried pa.s.sionately, "how insignificant and mean you make me feel! You women can forgive, and we're so obstinate.

You've spared me such a lot, I know. If you had told me all I know you could, I never should have cared for you again! It's pretty d.a.m.nable, that, isn't it? But swine like me go on repenting and repenting, and then we're twice as bad again. We're cursed, I think; we----"

She put her hand over his mouth. "It's over now," she said: "time up,"

and laughed, herself again.

He looked at her as at some miracle beyond his understanding. "And you won't ever long to--well, to be Zoe again?"

She looked him full in the face, and her eyes smiled happiness. "No,"

she said, "_I_'ve found myself out as well. I'm nothing but a woman after all!"

"The dearest woman in the whole world," he replied and kissed her.

Ruth knocked at the door.

THE END

_BOOKS BY DESMOND c.o.kE_

NOVELS

THE COMEDY OF AGE THE CALL THE PEDESTAL THE GOLDEN KEY BEAUTY FOR ASHES

STUDIES OF BOY NATURE

THE BENDING OF A TWIG WILSON'S

HUMOUR (_ex hypothesi_)