And another point, almost equally important, is that the husband is generally messing about at home.  That is, indeed, to a superficial observer, one of the most remarkable characteristics of the literary household.  Other husbands are cast out in the morning to raven for income and return to a home that is swept and garnished towards the end of the day; but the literary husband is ever in possession.  His work must not be disturbed even when he is merely thinking.  The study is consequently a kind of domestic cordite factory, and you are never certain when it may explode.  The concussion of a dust-pan and brush may set it going, the sweeping of a carpet in the room upstairs.  Then behold a haggard, brain-weary man, fierce and dishevelled, and full of shattered masterpiece—­expostulating.  Other houses have their day of cleaning out this room, and their day for cleaning out that; but in the literary household there is one uniform date for all such functions, and that is “to-morrow.”  So that Mrs. Mergles makes her purifying raids with her heart in her mouth, and has acquired a way of leaving the pail and brush, or whatever artillery she has with her, in a manner that unavoidably engages the infuriated brute’s attention and so covers her retreat.

It is a problem that has never been probably solved, this discord of order and orderly literary work.  Possibly it might be done by making the literary person live elsewhere or preventing literary persons from having households.  However it might be done, it is not done.  This is a thing innocent girls exposed to the surreptitious proposals of literary men do not understand.  They think it will be very fine to have photographs of themselves and their “cosy nooks” published in magazines, to illustrate the man’s interviews, and the full horror of having this feral creature always about the house, and scarcely ever being able to do any little thing without his knowing it, is not brought properly home to them until escape is impossible.

And then there is the taint of “copy” everywhere.  That is really the fundamental distinction.  It is the misfortune of literary people, that they have to write about something.  There is no reason, of course, why they should, but the thing is so.  Consequently, they are always looking about them for something to write about.  They cannot take a pure-minded interest in anything in earth or heaven.  Their servant is no servant, but a character; their cat is a possible reservoir of humorous observation; they look out of window and see men as columns walking.  Even the sanctity of their own hearts, their self-respect, their most private emotions are disregarded.  The wife is infected with the taint.  Her private opinion of her husband she makes into a short story—­forgets its origin and shows it him with pride—­while the husband decants his heart-beats into occasional verse and minor poetry.  It is amazing what a lot of latter-day literature consists of such breaches of confidence.  And not simply latter-day literature.