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Updated: May 26, 2025
He took a sympathetic view of the necessity of new gowns, he gave her a set of furs at Christmas, and before the New Year they had agreed on the obligation of adding a parlour-maid to their small establishment. Providence the very next day hastened to justify this measure by placing on Glennard's breakfast-plate an envelope bearing the name of the publishers to whom he had sold Mrs.
"Aunt Virginia talked to me very seriously. It will be a great relief to mother and the others to have me provided for in that way for two years. I must think of that, you know." She glanced down at her gown which, under a renovated surface, dated back to the first days of Glennard's wooing. "I try not to cost much but I do." "Good Lord!" Glennard groaned.
The third lady of the trio which Glennard's fancy had put to such unflattering uses, was bound by circumstances to support the claims of the other two. This was Mrs. Dresham, the wife of the editor of the Radiator. Mrs.
Glennard's God was a god of the living, of the immediate, the actual, the tangible; all his days he had lived in the presence of that god, heedless of the divinities who, below the surface of our deeds and passions, silently forge the fatal weapons of the dead. A knock roused him and looking up he saw his wife. He met her glance in silence, and she faltered out, "Are you ill?"
She had given him, instead, the delicate pleasure of watching her expand like a sea-creature restored to its element, stretching out the atrophied tentacles of girlish vanity and enjoyment to the rising tide of opportunity. And somehow in the windowless inner cell of his consciousness where self-criticism cowered Glennard's course seemed justified by its merely material success.
Aubyn's plagiarisms, to borrow a metaphor of her trade, somehow never seemed to be incorporated with the text. Genius is of small use to a woman who does not know how to do her hair. The fame that came to Mrs. Aubyn with her second book left Glennard's imagination untouched, or had at most the negative effect of removing her still farther from the circle of his contracting sympathies.
She bent to flick a caterpillar from the honey-suckle; then, as they turned indoors, "If we mean to go on the yacht next Sunday," she suggested, "oughtn't you to let Mr. Flamel know?" Glennard's exasperation deflected suddenly. "Of course I shall let him know. You always seem to imply that I'm going to do something rude to Flamel."
"Rather; I should say so." Glennard's hand lingered on the knob. "How much should you say? You know about such things." "Oh, I should have to see the letters; but I should say well, if you've got enough to fill a book and they're fairly readable, and the book is brought out at the right time say ten thousand down from the publisher, and possibly one or two more in royalties.
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