these restless weeks that I wrote my play.

I think nothing will ever erase from my mind the moment when the
central idea of _The Girl who Waited_ came to me. It was a
boisterous October evening. The wind had been rising all day. Now the
branches of the lilac were dancing in the rush of the storm, and far
out in the bay one could see the white crests of the waves gleaming
through the growing darkness. We had just finished tea. The lamp was
lit in our little drawing-room, and on the sofa, so placed that the
light fell over her left shoulder in the manner recommended by
oculists, sat my mother with Schopenhauer's _Art of Literature_.
Ponto slept on the rug.

Something in the unruffled peace of the scene tore at my nerves. I have
seldom felt so restless. It may have been the storm that made me so. I
think myself that it was James's letter. The boat had been late that
morning, owing to the weather, and I had not received the letter till
after lunch. I listened to the howl of the wind, and longed to be out
in it.

My mother looked at me over her book.

"You are restless, Margie," she said. "There is a volume of Marcus
Aurelius on the table beside you, if you care to read."

"No, thank you, mother," I said. "I think I shall go for a walk."

"Wrap up well, my dear," she replied.

She then resumed her book.