She took the letter from his hand and read it. It was from the editor of the Review, a one time “chief” of Hugh’s.
“I enclose you cheque for ten guineas as arranged,” it said, “and, of course, now you’re a celebrity, old man, I’ve had to print it and be thankful. But you wouldn’t have had the cheek to send me a rotter of a story like that six years ago, and you know it. You want a change, that’s what it is, old man, you’re attempting too much. Take a run over to New Zealand, or go home. And if you’ve been turning out any more stories like this choice Hypocrites, take my advice and burn ’em before you blast your brand-new reputation.”
“Where’s the last Melbourne Review, I ask you?” roared Hugh. As if it were part of Kate’s duty to bring files of the latest magazines with her to picnics!
She delved instantly into her memory to try to help him; another woman might have chosen the moment to sulk, offended at his tone.
“It came on Thursday,” she said, “I [p256] remember tearing a page out to make a boat for Muffie—I meant to have torn an advertisement page, but found later it had part of a story of yours on it.”
“What was the tale called?”
“The Hypocrites.”
“And my signature to it?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Great heavens, girl, don’t you see what your carelessness has done? You’ve sent that confounded woman’s tale to the editor as my work!”