"The vision passeth away, but the shadow of the gamp remaineth ..." murmured Patricia piously, already beginning to be restive in her role of a-hundred-years-ago. "You might break the blow to me," she said aloud; "are they going to refuse my book?"
"Good Heavens, no! what a brute I am to let you be worrying your heart out all this time."
"Oh, I wasn't," Patricia owned frankly; "I've a sneaking sort of confidence in the worth of my own work which has upheld me during the damnably long time you have taken to decide on its merits. Forgive the language; I daresay it wasn't your fault."
Gareth winced.... And quickly told her what Alexander had said that morning.
"And you think that means——?"
"Acceptance; I'm quite sure of it. If Vincent Alexander admits anything to be tolerably average, it's equivalent to a delirious outburst from Mr. Campbell, our chief. They have about the same standard of judgment, but different ways of expressing it. You'll be summoned to an interview shortly, and then you'll see for yourself. Our junior partner doesn't think authors ought to be encouraged."
"But the best writers publish with you, don't they? an awfully good array. I selected the firm for a first try because I thought I would look well in the catalogue all among your Graham Carrs and Ran Wymans and—let me see—who else is of the illustrious company?"
Gareth named a few more of "Campbell's Young Men"; wondering meanwhile if anything of his own forfeited glamour of belonging to that arrogant little band of intellects, was shared by the girl? or whether any other good firm of publishers would have satisfied her equally.
But just at present he could not feel quite as bitter over his lost chance as during the brooding dreary evenings at home.... Now, with her shoulder brushing his at every step, and her wind-bitten cheek poppy-stained against the blown gold of her hair. Presently he asked her solicitously if she were not tired?
"We're nearly there," she encouraged him, thinking this to be a confession on his part. "I'm taking you to a nice ramshackle mill, where a nice fat Yorkshire woman will give us tea and a fire and her family history: the miller drinks; and somebody quite important was once murdered there and they can't get used to the distinction; and she makes perfectly wonderful cake—Cornish heavy-cake; and cures swine and makes them into ham; and has almost cured her husband.... Oh, she's remarkably versatile!"