They were sitting in the library, late at night.  As usual when he was stirred, Reuben paced up and down the room and gesticulated.

“Do you mean it to be a big book!” Cecily asked, after reflection.

“Not very big.  I should have French models before me, rather than English.”

“It would take you a long time to prepare.”

“Two or three years, perhaps.  But what does that matter?  I shall work a good deal at the British Museum.  It will oblige me to be away from you a good deal, but—­”

“You mustn’t trouble about that.  I have my own work.  If your mornings are regularly occupied, I shall be able to make flied plans of study there are so many things I want to work at.”

“Capital!  It’s high time we came to that.  And then, you know, you might be able to give me substantial help—­reading, making notes, and so on—­if you cared to.”

Cecily smiled.

“Yes, if I care to.—­But hasn’t the subject been dealt with already?”

“Oh, of course, in all sorts of ways.  But not in my way.  No man ever wrote about it with such energy of hatred as I shall bring to the task.”

Cecily was musing.

“It won’t be a history in the ordinary sense,” she said.  “You will make no pretence of historic calm and impartiality.”

“Not I, indeed!  My book shall be cited as a splendid example of odium antitheologicum.  There are passages of eloquence rolling in my mind!  And this is just the time for such a work.  Throughout intellectual England, Puritanism is dead; but we know how vigorously it survives among the half-educated classes.  My book shall declare the emancipation of all the better minds and be a help to those who are struggling upwards.  It will be a demand, also, for a new literature, free from the absurd restraints that Puritanism has put upon us.  All the younger writers will rally about me.  It shall be a ‘movement.’  The name of my book shall be a watchword.”

They talked about it till one in the morning.

For several weeks Elgar was constantly at the Museum.  He read prodigiously; he brought home a great quantity of notes; every night Cecily and he talked over his acquisitions, and excited themselves.  But the weather grew oppressively hot, and it was plain that they could not carry out the project of remaining in town all through the autumn.  Already Reuben was languishing in his zeal, when little Clarence had a sudden and alarming illness.  As soon as possible, all went off to the seaside.

Since his work had begun, Reuben’s interest in the child had fallen off.  Its ailments were soon little more than an annoyance to him; Cecily perceived this, and seldom spoke on the subject.  The fact of the sudden illness affording an opportunity for rest led him to express more solicitude than he really felt, but when the child got back into its normal state, Reuben was more plainly indifferent to it than ever.  He spoke impatiently if the mother’s cares occupied her when he wished for her society.