It was not until after the reading of the will, when the lawyer and the doctor had gone back to Guernsey, that Bayre, for the first time, found himself alone with Olwen. Mrs Bartlett Bayre, in a very subdued and tearful condition, had stolen out of the house by herself on the first opportunity.
Then for the first time Olwen grew absurdly shy and began to talk about the weather.
“Oh, we can leave the weather alone for a little while,” said Bayre, coolly. “We have other things to discuss—novels for one thing.”
She grew very red.
“Oh, I was so sorry afterwards that I troubled you with my nonsense,” she said with an assumption of indifference. “You can send it back to me; I’ll give you the stamps; or—no, you can put it into your waste-paper basket—or—”
“Thank you—so much,” said he, “for both those suggestions. You may give me the stamps if you like; I never refuse postage stamps. But it would be a pity to put your manuscript into the waste-paper basket, for I heard on Friday night that it had been accepted by a publisher, who, by-the-bye, has rejected everything he’s seen of mine.”
The girl was transfixed with delight.
“Ac—cepted,” faltered she, “really and truly accepted! Do you mean that they’re going to print it?”
“Print it, bind it, and put your name on the back in gilt letters,” replied he. “More than that, they’re going to pay you for it.”
Olwen clasped her hands; she almost staggered with delight.