The things consisted of six or seven books, a quantity of foolscap, an inkpot dangerously brimming, a paper-knife made of olive wood from Gethsemane, several pens and pencils, and a roll of blotting paper as white as the snow upon the summit of Mont Blanc, and so fat that John thought at first it was a tablecloth and wondered what his brother-in-law meant to do with it. He was even chilled by a brief and horrible suspicion that he was going to hold a communion service. Edith rose hastily from the table to help her husband unload himself.
"I'm so sorry, dear, why didn't you ring?"
"My dear, how could I ring without letting my materials drop?" Laurence asked, patiently.
"Or call?"
"My chin was too much occupied for calling. But it doesn't matter, Edith. As you see, I've managed to bring everything down quite safely."
"I'm so sorry," Edith went on. "I'd no idea. … "
"I told you that I was going to begin work this morning."
"Yes, how stupid of me … I'm so sorry. … "
"Going to work, are you?" interrupted John, who was anxious to stop Edith's conjugal amenity. "That's capital."
"Yes, I'm really only waiting now to choose my room."
"I'm sorry I can't offer you mine … but I must be alone. I find. … "
"Of course," Laurence agreed with a nod of sympathetic knowingness. "Of course, my dear fellow, I shouldn't dream of trespassing. I, though indeed I've no right to compare myself with you, also like to work alone. In fact I consider that a secure solitude provides the ideal setting for dramatic composition. I have a habit—perhaps it comes from preparing my sermons with my eye always upon the spoken rather than upon the written word—I have a habit of declaiming many of my pages aloud to myself. That necessitates my being alone—absolutely alone."
"Yes, you see," Edith said, "if you're alone you're not disturbed."
John who was still sensitive to Edith's truisms tried to cover her last by incorporating Hilda in the conversation with a "What room do you advise?"
"Why not the dining-room? I'll tell Emily to clear away the breakfast things at once."
"Clear away?" Laurence repeated.
"And they won't be laying for lunch till a quarter-to-one."
"Laying for lunch?" Laurence gasped. "My dear Hilda! I don't wish to attribute to my—ah—work an importance which perhaps as a hitherto unacted playwright I have no right to attribute, but I think John at any rate will appreciate my objection to working with—ah—the bread-knife suspended over my head like the proverbial sword of Damocles. No, I'm afraid I must rule out the dining-room as a practicable environment."
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