Constance looked at him in surprise, not understanding what he meant.
“Of course I want it,” she answered. “After it is printed give it back to me.”
“Printed!” exclaimed George, contemptuously. “Do you think anybody would publish it? Do you really think I would offer it to anybody?”
“You are not serious,” said the young girl, staring at him.
“Indeed I am in earnest. Do you believe a novel can be dashed off in that way, in three or four weeks and be good for anything? Why, it needs six months at least to write a book!”
“What do you call this?” Constance asked, growing suddenly cold and taking the manuscript from his hands.
“Not a book, certainly. It is a scrawl of some sort, a little better than a dime novel, a little poorer than the last thrilling tale in a cheap weekly. Whatever it is, it is not a publishable story.”
Constance could not believe her ears. She did not know whether to be angry at his persistent contempt of her opinion, or to be frightened at the possibility of his being right.
“We cannot both be right,” she said at last, with sudden energy. “One of us two must be an idiot—an absolute idiot—and—well, I would rather not think that I am the one, you know.”
George laughed and tried to take the manuscript back, but she held it behind her and faced him.