"I don't often get the chance to read them," she said and hurriedly turned on to the next page, "considering you always cling firmly to the D.T. till I've got to begin my housework!" This last was her name for what he, in a Yankee spirit, nicknamed "chores."
So for the moment that danger was averted, but Helena knew it was really no more than postponed, and long before the day was over, wished that she had faced it instantly.
When he came in to her just before dinner she knew that he had seen before he spoke a word. He drew the notice, neatly cut out, from his pocket, and she made a pretence of reading it.
"It's merely spite," was all he said. "How dare they call me insincere? They know it's a good seller and that's just what they can't stand. I've written to the editor and I hope I get that swine the boot."
"Is that very kind, dear?" she asked. "It's his job, you know, and you said bad reviews would sell the book."
He gave an angry snort. "Yes, I dare say, but not this kind. No plot, nothing except that its fatiguing and may be a burlesque. English people hate being puzzled even more than they hate being bored."
This saying had the effect, she thought, of cheering him a little, for he gave a sardonic laugh and said:
"Well, no matter, let them do their worst. Trust the public later on to find out that the novel's bad! ... When's dinner?"