"What about the book?" he inquired with an interest that was not wholly simulated. "If it has appeared, why didn't you send me a copy?"
Her face fell. "Oh, that was a dreadful blow!" She looked up at him with a pathetic demand for sympathy in her fine eyes. "No one would publish the book unless all expenses were guaranteed by the author, and though, of course, there would have been no difficulty about that——"
"You wanted it to come out on its own merits?"
"Yes, that was how I felt. Pater said it was very stupid of me."
"I think it was very honest of you."
"Do you really? I often wanted to ask you, but it seemed such a confession of failure, and you know you always made me feel a failure when I was with you in India!"
"Did I? I assure you it was quite unintentional."
She laughed a little self-consciously. "Oh, I'm sure it was very good for me, and perhaps it helped me to realise that my object in writing a book at all was not so much to give my experiences and opinions to the public as to impress my friends with my cleverness and superiority. Really you are to blame for the non-appearance of the book."
"What an unkind accusation!"
"Not quite so unkind perhaps as it might appear," she said softly; then, as though to edge away from a too intimate topic, she began to ask questions about his last appointment, about his voyage home. What had he done with Jacob? Had he sold the chestnut pony? And they talked and talked as course succeeded course, until the wine and the wonderfully cooked food, and the girl's unaffected interest in himself and his doings chased the cloud from Philip's spirit, lifted his depression, and he felt, as the women streamed from the dining-room at the conclusion of the meal, that perchance life need not be quite so dreary, so empty, after all.