The door of the flat was heard to close after him.
'Let us go into the study, then,' said Amy, again in rather a cold voice.
On Reardon's desk were lying slips of blank paper.

Edith, approaching on tiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly genuine, awe, looked at the literary apparatus, then turned with a laugh to her friend.
'How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people one has invented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have been tempted to try if I couldn't write a story.' 'Have you ?' 'And I'm sure I don't know how you can resist the temptation.

I feel sure you could write books almost as clever as your husband's.' 'I have no intention of trying.' 'You don't seem very well to-day, Amy.' 'Oh, I think I am as well as usual.' She guessed that her husband was once more brought to a standstill, and this darkened her humour again.
'One of my reasons for corning,' said Edith, 'was to beg and entreat and implore you and Mr Reardon to dine with us next Wednesday.

Now, don't put on such a severe face! Are you engaged that evening ?' 'Yes; in the ordinary way.

Edwin can't possibly leave his work.' 'But for one poor evening! It's such ages since we saw you.' 'I'm very sorry.