less longing for development of a real Self, that almost morbid
shame of her own ignorance, had issued finally in something tangible.
She was an authoress!

No doubt her book was not like Hubert's, built up carefully on
scientific scaffolding; but still--it had pleased Mr. Alison and it had
satisfied a publisher!

Small wonder, then, if totally forgetful though she was of her new
theories on Hubert's mode of work--immersed by now in the palpitating
thrill of her new secret--she yet sat opposite to him this night at
dinner with a less feeling of abasement, a new confidence. She found
it hard at moments to attend to him and throw in, as she usually did,
appreciative comments now and then.

"Of course," he was saying now, criticising a review, "all this about
'painting' with a pen is rubbish. The two arts have no resemblance.
The painter used to be a monk--and is a mountebank! He never yet has
been a writer."

"Oh, I don't know. What about Rossetti? Or even Whistler?" she put in
absently, just as though it had been Geoffrey Alison.

Hubert was brought up with a jerk. He hated people who corrected one.
It was like Mrs. Boyd, exactly. Of course he knew that she was right
and he wrong, handsomely--although he'd no idea _she_ knew--but it
would be so dull if every one was accurate!

"My dear," he said coldly, "I know all about that, but do you think you
need interrupt my argument to tell me? I shall be afraid to speak at
all if I am going to be heckled!"

He waved the thing aside with a short laugh, as though to say she was
forgiven. But something in his manner had annoyed Helena to-night.

"I wasn't 'heckling'," she said, trying to speak lightly; "but you
know, Hugh, it's a bit mediaeval if I know things and mayn't say
anything!"

Hubert gaped at her.

Mediaeval! That was a real Mrs. Boyd idea. He made no answer, but he
was more than vaguely annoyed. This was his simple little Helena no
longer. It was those damned lectures....

He felt that from this moment they stood on a new footing.

PART III

HELENA BRETT'S CAREER

CHAPTER XVIII

ZOE

Helena unfolded the slip, pasted on its blue half-sheet, and began to
read it, thoroughly engrossed. She seemed forgetful of Geoffrey
Alison, who in turn watched her with hardly less attention, more
anxiety. He knew the thing by heart.

"_Confessions of an Author's Wife_ (Blatchley & Co.) is by its name
confessed as of the Human Document categ