In proportion, however, as he felt this growing attachment to the fabric of his abode, Elsie Bengough, from being merely unattracted, began to show a dislike of the place that was more and more marked.  And she did not scruple to speak of her aversion.

“It doesn’t belong to to-day at all, and for you especially it’s bad,” she said with decision.  “You’re only too ready to let go your hold on actual things and to slip into apathy; you ought to be in a place with concrete floors and a patent gas-meter and a tradesmen’s lift.  And it would do you all the good in the world if you had a job that made you scramble and rub elbows with your fellow-men.  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.

“His own life to live!...  How long is it since you were out, Paul?”

“About two hours.”

“I don’t mean to buy stamps or to post a letter.  How long is it since you had anything like a stretch?”

“Oh, some little time perhaps.  I don’t know.”

“Since I was here last?”

“I haven’t been out much.”

“And has Romilly progressed much better for your being cooped up?”

“I think she has.  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?”

“If you mean,” said Oleron slowly, “that I’ve discarded the old Romilly, and am at work on a new one, you’re right.  I have still got that idea in my head.”

Something uncordial in his tone struck her; but she was a fighter.  His own absurd sensitiveness hardened her.  She gave a “Pshaw!” of impatience.

“Where is the old one?” she demanded abruptly.

“Why?” asked Oleron.

“I want to see it.  I want to show some of it to you.  I want, if you’re not wool-gathering entirely, to bring you back to your senses.”

This time it was he who turned his back.  But when he turned round again he spoke more gently.

“It’s no good, Elsie.  I’m responsible for the way I go, and you must allow me to go it—­even if it should seem wrong to you.  Believe me, I am giving thought to it....  The manuscript?  I was on the point of burning it, but I didn’t.  It’s in that window-seat, if you must see it.”

Miss Bengough crossed quickly to the window-seat, and lifted the lid.  Suddenly she gave a little exclamation, and put the back of her hand to her mouth.  She spoke over her shoulder: