"It's about my story. Of course it is returned."
"Oh, well, try somebody else. There's heaps of other publishers; or, if that doesn't do, write another tale."
"It's very easy to talk like that, Reg. You don't seem to care."
"Yes; I do care very much. Where's the manuscript?"
Then it flashed across Salome for the first time that the manuscript had not arrived with the letter.
"Why, the manuscript is not come after all. Perhaps it is lost. I daresay it is lost. It does not matter."
The entrance of Stevens settled this matter. "The postman came back with this parcel, Miss Salome. He forgot to deliver it. What is it?"
"Oh, it is mine. It is all right. Give it to me, Stevens."
"What a state the room is in! Well, for your own comfort's sake, I think you might keep it tidier, Miss Salome. You would be ever so much more comfortable.—O Master Reg, what boots! Well, I don't know how the mud is to be got off. You must remember there's no one but me to do everything, except the old lady, who is not one to put herself out of the way to help anybody—not she."
"Well, I'll clean my own boots, if that's all," said Reginald. "I don't care what I do. I'll clean the knives too, and learn to make you a gown, if it will please you, Stevie." And Reginald sprang up, took Stevens round the waist, made her pirouette round the table with him, and then, having left dabs of clay and mud off his boots all over Mrs. Pryor's red drugget, vanished.