New Grub Street - George Gissing (e book reader free TXT) 📗

was partly make believe, partly genuine, awe, looked at the literary apparatus, then turned with a laugh to her friend.

“How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people one has invented! Ever since I have known you and Mr. Reardon I have been tempted to try if I couldn’t write a story.”

“Have you?”

“And I’m sure I don’t know how you can resist the temptation. I feel sure you could write books almost as clever as your husband’s.”

“I have no intention of trying.”

“You don’t seem very well today, Amy.”

“Oh, I think I am as well as usual.”

She guessed that her husband was once more brought to a standstill, and this darkened her humour again.

“One of my reasons for coming,” said Edith, “was to beg and entreat and implore you and Mr. Reardon to dine with us next Wednesday. Now, don’t put on such a severe face! Are you engaged that evening?”

“Yes; in the ordinary way. Edwin can’t possibly leave his work.”

“But for one poor evening! It’s such ages since we saw you.”

“I’m very sorry. I don’t think we shall ever be able to accept invitations in future.”

Amy spoke thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute ago, no such definite declaration was in her mind.

“Never?” exclaimed Edith. “But why? Whatever do you mean?”

“We find that social engagements consume too much time,” Amy replied, her explanation just as much of an impromptu as the announcement had been. “You see, one must either belong to society or not. Married people can’t accept an occasional invitation from friends and never do their social duty in return. We have decided to withdraw altogether⁠—at all events for the present. I shall see no one except my relatives.”

Edith listened with a face of astonishment.

“You won’t even see me?” she exclaimed.

“Indeed, I have no wish to lose your friendship. Yet I am ashamed to ask you to come here when I can never return your visits.”

“Oh, please don’t put it in that way! But it seems so very strange.”

Edith could not help conjecturing the true significance of this resolve. But, as is commonly the case with people in easy circumstances, she found it hard to believe that her friends were so straitened as to have a difficulty in supporting the ordinary obligations of a civilised state.

“I know how precious your husband’s time is,” she added, as if to remove the effect of her last remark. “Surely, there’s no harm in my saying⁠—we know each other well enough⁠—you wouldn’t think it necessary to devote an evening to entertaining us just because you had given us the pleasure of your company. I put it very stupidly, but I’m sure you understand me, Amy. Don’t refuse just to come to our house now and then.”

“I’m afraid we shall have to be consistent, Edith.”

“But do you think this is a wise thing to do?”

“Wise?”

“You know what you once told me, about how necessary it was for a novelist to study all sorts of people. How can Mr. Reardon do this if he shuts himself up in the house? I should have thought he would find it necessary to make new acquaintances.”

“As I said,” returned Amy, “it won’t be always like this. For the present, Edwin has quite enough ‘material.’ ”

She spoke distantly; it irritated her to have to invent excuses for the sacrifice she had just imposed on herself. Edith sipped the tea which had been offered her, and for a minute kept silence.

“When will Mr. Reardon’s next book be published?” she asked at length.

“I’m sure I don’t know. Not before the spring.”

“I shall look so anxiously for it. Whenever I meet new people I always turn the conversation to novels, just for the sake of asking them if they know your husband’s books.”

She laughed merrily.

“Which is seldom the case, I should think,” said Amy, with a smile of indifference.

“Well, my dear, you don’t expect ordinary novel-readers to know about Mr. Reardon. I wish my acquaintances were a better kind of people; then, of course, I should hear of his books more often. But one has to make the best of such society as offers. If you and your husband forsake me, I shall feel it a sad loss; I shall indeed.”

Amy gave a quick glance at the speaker’s face.

“Oh, we must be friends just the same,” she said, more naturally than she had spoken hitherto. “But don’t ask us to come and dine just now. All through this winter we shall be very busy, both of us. Indeed, we have decided not to accept any invitations at all.”

“Then, so long as you let me come here now and then, I must give in. I promise not to trouble you with any more complaining. But how you can live such a life I don’t know. I consider myself more of a reader than women generally are, and I should be mortally offended if anyone called me frivolous; but I must have a good deal of society. Really and truly, I can’t live without it.”

“No?” said Amy, with a smile which meant more than Edith could interpret. It seemed slightly condescending.

“There’s no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man⁠—” She paused, smiling and musing. “But then I haven’t, you see.” She laughed. “Albert is anything but a bookworm, as you know.”

“You wouldn’t wish him to be.”

“Oh no! Not a bookworm. To be sure, we suit each other very well indeed. He likes society just as much as I do. It would be the death of him if he didn’t spend three-quarters of every day with lively people.”

“That’s rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among the lively ones.”

They exchanged looks, and laughed together.

“Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with silly people,” Edith went on. “But then there’s generally some amusement to be got, you know. I don’t take life quite so seriously as you do. People are people, after all; it’s good fun to see how they live and hear how they talk.”

Amy