What Clytie had stated, in her characteristically slangy way, was rather under the truth. These two, possessed of exceptional powers of attractiveness, had, as she put it, “no show.” Nor did their relative attractions clash. The one, with her limpid blue eyes, Grecian profile, and tall serenity of carriage, made an effective contrast to the rounder, more voluptuous outlines of the other, with her dark, clear skin and mantling complexion, bright hazel eyes and full, ruddy lips. But their circumstances and surroundings were all against them; and, handicapped by tippling, disreputable old Calmour as a parent, those they would have had to do with fought shy of them, and those they would not—well, they would not.
“There’s the second post,” said Delia with a sigh. “More duns, I suppose.”
She went to the door just as the postman rapped his double knock, and returned immediately with two letters.
“Both for me, but—I don’t know the first at all.”
“It’s Haldane, putting you off, of course.”
“Oh, Clytie, don’t,” quickly answered Delia, to whom such an eventuality would have constituted the keenest of disappointments. “No; it’s all right,” tremulously tearing open both envelopes. “But—they’re not for me at all, they’re for you. They’re about typing, but they’re both directed ‘Miss Calmour.’”
“Let’s see.” Then reading: “‘Madam,—you have been mentioned to me by Mr Wagram Wagram—’ Ah, that’s all right.” And she went on with the letter, which ran to the effect that the writer wanted the MS of a novel of 80,000 words typed, asking her terms, and throwing out a promise that, if such were satisfactory, he would be happy to entrust her with all his work. The name was a fairly well-known one.
“Now, what shall I ask him? If I say a shilling a thousand, there’s a four-pound job. But, then, he may answer he can get it done for tenpence, which is quite true. If he had seen me I’d ask him fifteen pence.”
“Do it anyhow. You can always come down.”
“No fear; not through the post. Well, I’ll ask him a bob, and chance it.”