"You are funny," she said lazily from her armchair, like some one who claps in the stalls.
He looked slightly hurt. "You always say that if I'm serious," he protested. Then less plaintively, as though heartened by what was to come: "As a matter of fact though, I've done you a very good turn."
"Me?" asked Helena, as he made an effective pause and there seemed nothing else to say. She couldn't thank, in case it really was a joke.
"Yes, you. Your silly manuscript, as you like to call it, is good—jolly good. I don't suppose you realise that, do you? It's something original, these days, and that is everything. It's——"
"I'm glad it amused you," Helena said, thinking that he had quitted himself well and now she must help him out; "but——"
"But where's the good turn?" he broke in, interpreting her wrongly. "Well, I'll tell you. I showed it—I knew you wouldn't mind——" (and here he looked a little timidly at her sideways), "I showed it to a publisher I've met about, a very decent fellow——"
"How dare you?" Helena flashed out youthfully, just as though they were playing Interruptions. "I lent it you to read and I think——"
He kept up the game. "Listen," he said with a firmness rare in him, confident of what he had to tell. "He said it was new and vital and had money in it: those are his exact words; and he wants to publish it if you can think of a good ending. There!"
At last it was out and he stood complacent, waiting for her thanks: but she was not even appeased. "I don't care what he said," she cried, and for this moment of her childish anger it was true. "I only know I lent it you and not to him; do you think I want everybody reading all my diaries?"
"But it was not a diary," he answered, keeping his head clear, "and he had no idea of course who wrote it."