When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his
wife's chair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers.
'Amy!'
'Yes, dear?'
'Do you still love me a little?'
'Much more than a little.'
'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?'
'Is it so bad as all that?'
'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the
proofs will be a martyrdom.'
'Oh, but why? why?'
'It's the best I can do, dearest. So you don't love me enough to
hear that calmly.'
'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's
dreadful to me to think of what they will say in the reviews.'
'Curse the reviews!'
His mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened
face, trembling angrily.
'I want you to promise me something, Amy. You won't read a single
one of the notices unless it is forced upon your attention. Now,
promise me that. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not
worth a glance of your eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if I
know you read all the contempt that will be poured on me.
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