he whole difficulty. If only he
would let her speak, she knew she could explain. She loved him; they
had had such jolly times; he wasn't in the least like Zoe's husband;
she hadn't realised, till that first review came, that life in the two
homes had been even similar; and if----

Suddenly she gave a little happy laugh, the first for hours that seemed
already months, then leapt up girlishly and ran to her bureau.

Of course! It was the very thing. Speaking was difficult, and somehow
he always made her feel so young and nervous. But this was easy and he
always loved things just a little different--what he called her "odd
little ways."

Feverish with excitement, she sat down and wrote her Apologia:--

"MY OWN DEAREST HUGH

"(I _can_ call you that on paper and in my own heart, whatever you say
about speaking.)

"Let me explain. If you can bear how things are now, I can't, and I
feel so terrible because although I meant absolutely nothing, I know
it's all my fault. I _am_ sorry, do believe that, go on reading, but
not a word of Zoe is _me_, really honestly. It's just Fiction like
your books, but it's the only sort of life I knew. Surely you can't
believe I think of you like that? The Husband was imaginary, and I
only did it in the winter, to pass all the hours while you were
working. I never called it _The Confessions of an Author's Wife_ at
all, that was the publisher and people, and they never let me see it
again till it was printed or I should have cut out a lot.

"Really, my own darling husband, _it was not my fault_. It's all very
awful and I am so sorry for you, but don't let's make it worse by
quarrelling ourselves. I'm sure we can live it down and nothing will
be worse than if we're seen to have quarrelled. We will write a note
together to the papers saying it was Fiction.

"Hugh, let me be forgiven and help you through this horrid time my
_stupidity_, and that's all, has brought you to. You don't know how
already I long to hear your laugh and just one kind word. We've not
been sloppy, have we? but no one could be fonder or prouder of her
husband, and I see so little of you anyhow. Don't rob me even of that.
Come and tell me I'm forgiven and be your dear old comfy self again. I
can't stand this.

"Your loving and Oh so sorry,
"H."

She read it over again, laughing through tears, for now everything
would be all right. Then, when she had sealed it and was about to
write his name,