“But you must!” Constance exclaimed energetically. “It is splendid, and he wants to burn it. It will make his reputation in a day—I assure you it will! And besides, I would not promise him not to show it. Please, please, Mr. Johnson——”
“Well, if you are quite sure there is no promise——”
“Oh, quite, quite sure. And will you give me your opinion very soon? If you begin to read it you will not be able to lay it down.”
Johnson smiled as he thought of the hundreds of manuscripts he had read for publishers. He had never found much difficulty in laying aside any of them.
“It is true,” Constance insisted. “It is a great book. There has been nothing like it for ever so many years.”
“Very well, madam. Give me the screed and I will read it. When shall I send—or would you rather——”
He stopped, not knowing whether she wished to give her name. Constance hesitated, too, and blushed faintly.
“I am Miss Fearing,” she said. “I live in Washington Square. Will you write down the address? Come and see me—or are you too busy?”
“I will bring you the manuscript the day after to-morrow, Miss Fearing.”
“Oh please, yes. Not later, because I cannot go out of town until I know—I mean, I want to go to Newport as soon as possible. Come after five. Will you? I mean if it is not giving you really too much trouble——”