It did not. It merely put out the fire.
Patricia shrugged her shoulders: "A clear example of the survival of the fittest. Not only have we still on our hands a whole round damp cake in perfectly healthy condition; but we shall also have to account to the miller's deceased wife's sister for the suspicious demise of the fire!"
Gareth stood helplessly with the blackened cake in his hands: "Shall I—shall I shove it under the carpet? Or climb through the window and bury it in the garden? I'll do anything for you——"
"Commit any crime? This comes of it, when a publisher goes traipsing round with his mad young clients."
"I'm only reader to the firm," he reminded her.
"I don't know ... somehow or other I shall always think of you as responsible for the publication of my book."
He was silent for a moment. And then, driven by an unconquerable impulse, said quietly: "I was very nearly responsible in preventing the publication of your book."
"What do you mean?"
He set down the cake on the table; walked to the window; stood with his back to her, seeking courage for confession.
Her voice came to him with a new grave note in it: "Mr. Temple—what do you mean?"