The prudent course was so obvious that he marvelled at Amy's failing to suggest it. For people in their circumstances to be paying a rent of fifty pounds when a home could be found for half the money was recklessness; there would be no difficulty in letting the flat for this last year of their lease, and the cost of removal would be trifling. The mental relief of such a change might enable him to front with courage a problem in any case very difficult, and, as things were, desperate. Three months ago, in a moment of profoundest misery, he had proposed this step; courage failed him to speak of it again, Amy's look and voice were too vivid in his memory. Was she not capable of such a sacrifice for his sake? Did she prefer to let him bear all the responsibility of whatever might result from a futile struggle to keep up appearances?
Between him and her there was no longer perfect confidence. Her silence meant reproach, and--whatever might have been the case before--there was no doubt that she now discussed him with her mother, possibly with other people. It was not likely that she concealed his own opinion of the book he had just finished; all their acquaintances would be prepared to greet its publication with private scoffing or with mournful shaking of the head. His feeling towards Amy entered upon a new phase. The stability of his love was a source of pain; condemning himself, he felt at the same time that he was wronged. A coldness which was far from representing the truth began to affect his manner and speech, and Amy did not seem to notice it, at all events she made no kind of protest. They no longer talked of the old subjects, but of those mean concerns of material life which formerly they had agreed to dismiss as quickly as possible. Their relations to each other--not long ago an inexhaustible topic--would not bear spoken comment; both were too conscious of the danger-signal when they looked that way.
In the time of waiting for the publishers' offer, and now again when he was asking himself how he should use the respite granted him, Reardon spent his days at the British Museum. He could not read to much purpose, but it was better to sit here among strangers than seem to be idling under Amy's glance. Sick of imaginative writing, he turned to the studies which had always been most congenial, and tried to shape out a paper or two like those he had formerly disposed of to editors. Among his unused material lay a mass of notes he had made in a reading of Diogenes Laertius, and it seemed to him now that he might make something salable out of these anecdotes of the philosophers. In a happier mood he could have written delightfully on such a subject--not learnedly, but in the strain of a modern man whose humour and sensibility find free play among the classic ghosts; even now he was able to recover something of the light touch which had given value to his published essays.
Meanwhile the first number of The Current had appeared, and Jasper Milvain had made a palpable hit. Amy spoke very often of the article called 'Typical Readers,' and her interest in its author was freely manifested. Whenever a mention of Jasper came under her notice she read it Out to her husband. Reardon smiled and appeared glad, but he did not care to discuss Milvain with the same frankness as formerly.
One evening at the end of January he told Amy what he had been writing at the Museum, and asked her if she would care to hear it read.
'I began to wonder what you were doing,' she replied.
'Then why didn't you ask me?'
'I was rather afraid to.'
'Why afraid?'
'It would have seemed like reminding you that--you know what Imean.'
'That a month or two more will see us at the same crisis again.
Still, I had rather you had shown an interest in my doings.'
After a pause Amy asked:
'Do you think you can get a paper of this kind accepted?'
'It isn't impossible. I think it's rather well done. Let me read you a page--'
'Where will you send it?' she interrupted.
'To The Wayside.'
'Why not try The Current? Ask Milvain to introduce you to Mr Fadge. They pay much better, you know.'
'But this isn't so well suited for Fadge. And I much prefer to be independent, as long as it's possible.'
'That's one of your faults, Edwin,' remarked his wife, mildly.
'It's only the strongest men that can make their way independently. You ought to use every means that offers.'
'Seeing that I am so weak?'
'I didn't think it would offend you. I only meant---'
'No, no; you are quite right. Certainly, I am one of the men who need all the help they can get. But I assure you, this thing won't do for The Current.'
'What a pity you will go hack to those musty old times! Now think of that article of Milvain's. If only you could do something of that kind! What do people care about Diogenes and his tub and his lantern?'
'My dear girl, Diogenes Laertius had neither tub nor lantern, that I know of. You are ****** a mistake; but it doesn't matter.'
'No, I don't think it does.' The caustic note was not very pleasant on Amy's lips. 'Whoever he was, the mass of readers will be frightened by his name.'
'Well, we have to recognise that the mass of readers will never care for anything I do.'
'You will never convince me that you couldn't write in a popular way if you tried. I'm sure you are quite as clever as Milvain-- '
Reardon made an impatient gesture.
'Do leave Milvain aside for a little! He and I are as unlike as twomen could be. What's the use of constantly comparing us?'
Amy looked at him. He had never spoken to her so brusquely.
'How can you say that I am constantly comparing you?'
'If not in spoken words, then in your thoughts.'
'That's not a very nice thing to say, Edwin.'
'You make it so unmistakable, Amy. What I mean is, that you are always regretting the difference between him and me. You lament that I can't write in that attractive way. Well, I lament it myself--for your sake. I wish I had Milvain's peculiar talent, so that I could get reputation and money. But I haven't, and there's an end of it. It irritates a man to be perpetually told of his disadvantages.'
