And yet it was not altogether the divine rage of the artist that had wrought this havoc.  The confusion argued a power at war with itself rather than with its creations; the very vastness of it all suggested a deity tied as to time, but apparently unshackled as to space.  That was it.  There really wasn’t as much time as there used to be.  It was in his free evenings and on Sundays that his best thoughts came to him, the beautiful shy thoughts that must be delicately courted.  And now his free evenings and his Sundays were given up to the courting of Flossie.  And even on a week-day this was what would happen.  He would rush home early from Fleet Street and settle down for two hours’ work before dinner.  Then a little timid knock would be heard at the door, and Flossie would come in bringing him a cup of tea.  He couldn’t just swill it down like a pig and send the dear little thing away.  He had to let her sit and see him drink it, slowly, as if he thoroughly enjoyed it.  Or he would come in (as on that blessed evening six months ago) and find Flossie dusting books; standing perhaps on two tottering hassocks and a chair, at an altitude perilous to so plump a person.  And Flossie had to be lifted down from the hassocks and punished with hard kisses, and told not to do it again.  And Flossie would do it again.  So that a great deal of time was lost in this way.  And with the touch of those soft little arms about his neck demoralization would set in for the evening.

And then there was Flossie’s education to be attended to; and that took more time than anything.  It meant that, as the November days drew in, he had to read or talk to Flossie as she sat in his armchair with her dear little feet on his fender, and her dear little hands mending his socks and shirts and things.  They might have been married for years, only they weren’t; that was what made it so exciting.  Flossie’s hands were always mending or making something (generally something to wear), and it was rather strange that it never occurred to such a busy person that other people might be busy too.  He tried to break it to her.  He told her (like a brute) that he thought all his things must be mended now, and that perhaps for another week he would be better without any tea.  And Flossie (very naturally offended) didn’t put her dear little nose in at his door for two weeks.  And for all you could get through in that time it was hardly worth while offending her.

But he was very far wrong in supposing that Flossie never thought about his work.  She had been thinking a great deal about it lately.  One cold bright Sunday morning in November she tapped at his door and walked in dressed for the open air.  “Aren’t you coming for a walk,” she said, “this lovely day?”

“Too busy.”  To signify his annoyance, or to keep himself from temptation, he bent closer over the article he was writing for The Museion.  She came and stood beside him, watching him as he worked, still with his air of passionate preoccupation.  Presently he found himself drawn against his will into the following conversation.