“They wouldn’t have been hurt. He’s far more likely to feel hurt when he sees those cuttings withering in an alien soil. For you don’t know anything about ’em, ’Lisbeth, and they’re sure to die. Besides which, sooner or later he’ll discover that you aren’t a gardener, however much you pretend. Then he’ll be annoyed.”

“I had to try to take an interest in his hobby,” she protested. It was strange how often she seemed to do the wrong thing; strange and sad.

He laughed, kissing her hair.

“Yes, but you carried it to excess, darling. I was convulsed with inward amusement when you nodded wisely at his botanical terms.”

Other people called, some nice, some negligible, others definitely nasty. Then began the wearisome ordeal of returning calls. To Elizabeth, who had never visited without her aunt, it was a terrifying ceremonial. She was overcome with nervousness, and could never think of anything to say. And«after the calls came invitations, some to tea, others to dinner. She preferred the dinner invitations, for Stephen was present then, to support her. He refused to accompany her out to tea; he said that his work was sufficient excuse. She could not agree; she had always imagined that a novelist had plenty of spare-time on his hands. Stephen seemed to have none. Even when he did cease work she knew that he was thinking of his book; thinking and planning. It was extraordinary that he could be so absorbed so soon after their marriage. She feared he was working too hard; when he sat up until three and four in the morning she worried, and often went downstairs to make him come to bed.

She would find him in the library, his head bent over the paper, his hand travelling fast, across and across. He would be dishevelled, totally abstracted, sometimes not noticing her entrance.

“Stephen dear, do come up to bed!” she would say softly. “I’m sure it isn’t good for you to work so late.”

“All right, darling. In a minute.”

Sighing she would seat herself on the arm of a chair, watching and waiting. The patience she displayed irritated him more than any petulance would have done. The feeling that she was there preyed upon his nerves; the flow of words came less easily, then stopped. In exasperation he would fling down his pen.

“Oh, darling, please don’t sit and wait for me! It worries me to distraction.”

“It worries me to know that you’re sitting up so late,” she would answer gravely.

“Very well, dear; I’ll come.”

It ended in him sleeping for the time in his dressing-room so that he should not disturb her. That showed her how great a hold his work had over him. While the mood for writing was on him he had no thought for anything else, no other passion, no other love.