She did her best, I will
admit, and even took the _Lives of the English Poets_ to bed with her
and concentrated on them until midnight, while she dipped into _The
Vanity of Human Wishes_ before breakfast. But it was no use. William
discovered her deception rapidly, and it seemed to annoy him unduly.
His visits began to fall off, and after Gladys had artlessly remarked
to him one day, 'Who is that Mr. Boswell you're always talking
about--he must be a great friend of yours. I hope you'll introduce
me,' he ceased to come altogether.
He had, in fact, arrived at the stage where Gladys irritated him. So
had we. But unlike William we could not get away from her. Her visit
had already extended two weeks and was melting into a third, and she
gave no hint of returning home. It wouldn't have been so bad if only
she had been quiet, but she is the most restless person I have ever
known. She was always running up and down stairs, banging doors,
playing fragments on the piano, and dashing into the study to talk to
Henry when he was writing.
He is, on the whole, an equable man, but more than once I trembled for
the consequences when I saw her go up to him, lean over his shoulder
and, snatching at some loose pages of his MS., playfully remark, 'What
funny crabbed letters! And what is it all about--something you're
inventing to deceive us poor public, I'll be bound. I don't believe a
word of what you're writing, so there!'
Henry used to say scorching things about Gladys when we retired at
night (the only chance we seemed to have now of being alone was in our
bedroom), and would ask me when I meant to tell her to go.
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