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THE CREATIVE IMPULSE (by W. S, Maugham) (continued) “Good afternoon, Bullfinch,” said Mrs Forrester. "I wish to see your master”. Mrs Bullfinch hesitated for a second, then held the door wide open. "Come in, ma’am.” She turned her head, “Albert, here’s Mrs Forrester to see you.” Mrs Forrester went in quickly and there was Albert sitt ing by the fire, leaning back in an old armchair and reading the evening paper. “How are you, my dear?” said Albert cheerfully, putting aside the paper. “Keeping well, I hope?” "Won’t you sit down, ma’am?” said Mrs Bullfinch, push ing a chair forward. “Could I see you alone, Albert?”.Mrs Forrester asked, sitting down. “I’m afraid not,” Albert answered, "because of Mrs Bull finch. I think she should be present.” “As you wish.” “Well, my dear, what have you to say to me?” Albert asked. Mrs Forrester gave him her best smile. “I don’t blame you for anything, Albert, I know it isn’t your fault and I’m not angry with you, but a joke’s a joke and should not be carried too far. I’ve come to take you home.” “Then I think you’re wasting your time, my dear,'’ said Albert. “Nothing will ever make me live with you again.” “Have you not been happy with me, Albert?” asked MrsForrester in a deeper tone, trying not to show that her feelings were hurt.

“We have been married for thirty-five years, my dear. It’s a very long time, isn’t it? You're a good woman in your own way1, but not suitable for me. You’re literary and I’m not. You’re artistic and I’m not.”

“But all this time I’ve been doing everything in my power to interest you in art and literature,” said Mrs Forrester.

“That’s true, and I can only blame myself if I didn’t react properly. But 1 don’t like the books you write. And I don’t like the people who surround you. Let me tell you a secret, my dear. At your parties I often very much wanted to take off my clothes just to see what would happen."

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Albert?" asked Mrs Bullfinch. “You haven’t got the right figure for that at all!” “Mrs Bullfinch wants me to retire,” Albert continued. “I discussed the matter with my partners today, and they agree to settle everything nicely. They will buy me out2, and I shall have an income of just under nine hundred pounds. There are three of us, so it gives us nearly three hundred a year each.” “How am I to live on that?” cried Mrs Forrester, using the last argument she could think of.

“You have a wonderful pen, my dear."

“You know very well that my books don’t bring me any money. The publishers always say that they lose by them.” And just then Mrs Bullfinch suddenly asked:

“Why don’t you write a good detective story?”

Mrs Forrester burst out laughing. “Me?” she exclaimed. “What a wild idea! I could never hope to please the masses and I have never read a detective story in my life.”

“It’s not a bad idea at all,” said Albert.

“I love a detective.story,” said Mrs Bullfinch, “Give me a lady in evening dress lying dead on the library floor and I know I’m going to enjoy

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