Godfrey Hemming.
It was very late when Hemming folded the carefully typed sheets and placed them in the precious envelope. He was utterly weary, which must be the explanation of a curious error he made. It was his custom to type his name and address on a separate sheet of paper which was clipped to the story he was submitting. He put his own name on one sheet, and his wife's on another. But in arranging the manuscripts for the envelope he inadvertently put his name-page with his wife's manuscript, and vice versa. Then he went to bed with the satisfaction of well-earned fatigue, and wondering how soon he would be able to order the “pert little hat”.
It was two weeks later, and the Urchin had just murmured himself off into his morning nap, when Janet heard the postman's whistle, and ran down to receive an envelope with the name of the Colonial Magazine engraved upon it. Eagerly she tore it open.
My Dear Mrs. Hemming:
Your husband was good enough to send me the manuscript of your story, which I have read with interest. It is an able piece of work, and shows unusual technical skill for a beginner. But I must caution you not to let your pen follow the track of your husband's method too closely. Naturally enough, perhaps, your style seems to have modeled itself on his: but this is a mistake, because it is quite evident that you have ability enough to strike out on your own line. I wish you would study carefully Mr. Hemming's last story, “Three Is Company,” which shows a freshness and spontaneous originality better than anything he has done before. It has a touch of charming humour which is new to his work. If you can do us something of that sort, we shall be only too happy to publish it.
I am returning your manuscript with many thanks.
Faithfully yours
Theodore Edwards.
Janet looked at the editor's flowing signature in amazement. “Three Is Company” was her own story. And there, in the Colonial Magazine's envelope, lay the revered pages of Godfrey's masterpiece, returned. The “fresh and spontaneous originality” was hers! A flush of exultation thrilled her: she could almost feel the pert little hat on her head. Instinctively she looked at herself in the mirror over the hall mantelpiece. Was it possible that she was a literary genius, and had never known it?
But then a pang of horror chilled her. What dreadful mistake had happened? Alas, it was only too plain—the two stories had been confused. The editor had thought that her story was Godfrey's. He had read it expecting to find the skill of Godfrey's trained hand. And now how was she to spare her husband the mortification of having his painstaking work rejected, while her prentice sketch had won favour by some fluke? Her loyal heart, entirely devoid of selfish satisfaction, could not bear the thought of this grotesque and unhappy climax for her innocent venture. It was all her fault for meddling with what did not concern her. What business had she to write a better story than Godfrey, anyway? She knew that her husband would be honestly proud of her success and would not grudge her the triumph for an instant, but she felt that the poignance of the situation would be intolerable for her. Much better do without all the pert little hats on Chestnut Street than win one at the expense of Godfrey's feelings.