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Updated: June 22, 2025
That's some sort of a justification." "And doing no work," said Miss Bengough pointedly. At that a trifling petulance that had been gathering in Oleron came to a head. "And why should I do nothing but work?" he demanded. "How much happier am I for it? I don't say I don't love my work when it's done; but I hate doing it. Sometimes it's an intolerable burden that I simply long to be rid of.
I'm laying the foundations of her. I shall begin the actual writing presently." It seemed as if Miss Bengough had forgotten their tussle about the first Romilly. She frowned, turned half away, and then quickly turned again. "Ah!... So you've still got that ridiculous idea in your head?"
That reflection struck him a little, and presently he returned to it. Yes, the room had, quite accidentally, done Miss Bengough a disservice that afternoon. It had, in some subtle but unmistakable way, placed her, marked a contrast of qualities.
Bengough said in a little poem published soon after Mr. Brown's death, "His nature was a rushing mountain stream; His faults but eddies which its swiftness bred." In his business as a journalist, he had not much of that philosophy which says that the daily difficulties of a newspaper are sure to solve themselves by the effluxion of time.
The next morning he sat down to work without even permitting himself to answer one of his three letters two of them tradesmen's accounts, the third a note from Miss Bengough, forwarded from his old address.
Now, if I could get you a job, for, say, two or three days a week, one that would allow you heaps of time for your proper work would you take it?" Somehow, Oleron resented a little being diagnosed like this. He thanked Miss Bengough, but without a smile. "Thank you, but I don't think so. After all each of us has his own life to live," he could not refrain from adding.
Elsie Bengough sometimes said that had she had one-tenth part of Oleron's genius there were few things she could not have done thus making that genius a quantitatively divisible thing, a sort of ingredient, to be added to or subtracted from in the admixture of his work. That it was a qualitative thing, essential, indivisible, informing, passed her comprehension.
And he made no mistake about it that time. Elsie Bengough had sunk into a chair, and her face was rather white; but in her hand was the manuscript of Romilly. She had not finished with Romilly yet. Presently she returned to the charge. "Oh, Paul, it will be the greatest mistake you ever, ever made if you do not publish this!" she said. He hung his head, genuinely distressed.
"I didn't exactly say that." "That fine, rich love-scene?" "I should only do it reluctantly, and for the sake of something I thought better." "And that beautiful, beautiful description of Romilly on the shore?" "It wouldn't necessarily be wasted," he said a little uneasily. But Miss Bengough made a large and windy gesture, and then let him have it. "Really, you are too trying!" she broke out.
He was looking out of his window one midday rather tired, not very well, and glad that it was not very likely he would have to stir out of doors, when he saw Elsie Bengough crossing the square towards his house.
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