In another moment she had slipped back into her weary
lymphatic nature, at once prematurely old and extravagantly childish. She
could not talk of indifferent things; and having asked some strange
questions, and laughed loudly, she wished Hubert 'Good-afternoon' in her
curious, irresponsible fashion, taking her leave abruptly.
The next two days Hubert devoted entirely to his play. There were things in
it which he knew were good, but it was incomplete. Montague Ford would not
produce it in its present form. He must put his shoulder to the wheel and
get it right; one more push, that was all that was wanted. And he could be
heard walking to and fro, up and down, along and across his tiny
sitting-room, stopping suddenly to take a note of an idea that had occurred
to him.
One day he went to Hampstead Heath. A long walk, he thought, would clear
his mind, and he returned home thinking of his play. The sunset still
glittering in the skies; the bare trees were beautifully distinct on the
blue background of the suburban street, and at the end of the long
perspective, a 'bus and a hansom could be seen coming towards him. As they
grew larger, his thoughts defined themselves, and the distressing problem
of his fourth act seemed to solve itself.
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