"How could it be?" said Harriet carelessly. "I can't be in two
places at once."
"Did you stay at home that evening?"
"No,--not all the evening."
"What friends are they you go to, when you are out at night,
Harriet?"
"Oh, some relations of the Colchester people.--I suppose you've
been spending most of your time in Kennington since Sunday?"
"I haven't left home. In fact, I've been very busy. I've just
finished some work that has occupied me for nearly a year."
After all, he could not refrain from speaking of it, though he had
made up his mind not to do so.
"Work? What work?" asked Harriet, with the suspicious look which
came into her grey eyes whenever she heard something she could not
understand.
"Some writing. I've written a play."
"A play? Will it be acted?"
"Oh no, it isn't meant for acting."
"What's the good of it then?"
"It's written in verse. I shall perhaps try to get it published."
"Shall you get money for it?"
"That is scarcely likely. In all probability I shall not be able to
get it printed at all."
"Then what's the good of it?" repeated Harriet, still suspicious,
and a little contemptuous.
"It has given me pleasure, that's all.
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