Incoherent screams of astonishment and unbelief met these statements. Phyl went on to say that wise authors never sold their books outright, but had a royalty on each copy; that Olive Schreiner had omitted to insist upon this, and had received the sum of £12 only for her African Farm, though some years later, after its enormous success, her publishers gave her a royalty.
Dolly’s head was swimming. “I think I’ll write at once,” she said; “come on, Phyl,” and she hurried off to the little study.
Phyl was rather quiet though she helped in the [301] ]preparations, pushed aside Richie’s useless inkstand, and placed a substantial one in its place.
Dolly’s arms closed round her. “Was I horrid?” she said. “Phyl, Phyl, are you vexed? Oh, Phyl!”
Phyl’s soft lips quivered a little. “Oh, no,” she said.
Dolly’s arms clung tighter. “Oh, don’t,” she said, “please, don’t, I was going to tell you—oh, lots of times, but I thought you’d say I was conceited, thinking I could write a book. So I thought I’d finish it and send it first. But when I got the letter, all the way from the post, I wouldn’t open it, because I wanted you to be there.”
Phyl looked mollified, and gave Dolly a sudden kiss.
“It’s all right, it was only at first I minded, but you know I’m gladder about it than I could ever say. I’m so glad that I can’t think of anything else.” All sorts of loving praise she gave. Dolly squeezed her arm; there was moisture in her eyes at the generous words, her mouth was unsteady.
“But how anxious, Dolly,—how very anxious you must have been all the time,” she said.
Dolly’s eyes looked out of the window to where an orange sun flamed to its death. Overhead and all around the sky was suffused with colour,—the very east burned gold and red of delicate shades, and turned the edges of its clouds rosy, and the shadows of them purple. Up very high in the broad blue hung the half moon.