It was of Burnett, nearest the door, that the entrant made careless enquiry. He replied, in the melancholy and regretful tones reserved especially for unsolicited female intruders on the firm's precious time: "I'm afraid Mr. Campbell is away. Did you wish to make an appointment?"
"I have one, thanks. Say Miss O'Neill is here."
"'Er!" exclaimed Jimmy audibly, in the silence following this announcement; "an' I never tumbled to it!"
Carr came quickly forward, releasing the stricken Burnett of responsibility.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Neill. The chief is most anxious to see you, of course. We've all heard such a lot of your novel. May I introduce myself?—Graham Carr."
Patricia had read "Piccadilly," and lingered a moment, talking to Carr. Then Campbell, mysteriously aware of her presence, burst open the door of his sanctum, and overwhelmed the author of "The Reverse of the Medal" in a gale of welcome; shaking her by both hands, congratulating her, congratulating everyone; introducing Alexander, unnecessarily introducing Carr, introducing Jimmy and young Burnett, and Gareth.... (Pat's eyes regarded him with perfect calmness from under her level brows!)... "A masterpiece! proud of ye, my lass, proud of ye!"—trying, against breathlessness and cough, to quote what the junior partner had said about the book.... Then a mild interpolation from that gentleman that they might as well talk some business, if Mr. Campbell had no objection—and the door of the private office sharply shut; young Burnett and Graham Carr exchanging admiring commentary down the stairs; their tread dying away; low continuous murmur of voices from the inner room; save for that, silence all about the reader, where he sat at his desk, amid a medley of proofs and manuscript, blotting-paper, ledgers, and foolscap.
... She would speak to him, coming out. Of course she would. She had simply relied on their secret understanding to explain her masquerade of indifference....
The murmur of voices swelled suddenly louder, as Alexander opened the glass door, and came through to fetch a thick roll of paper; the contract, no doubt. Contract, yes. Gareth knew exactly all the outward symbols of having got there, and how they would accumulate in the future: contract for the next book, and the book after that; pile of advertisements and posters; of press reviews; of letters from unknown admirers and fellow celebrities; discussions re American rights, and the cheap edition, and a possible édition de luxe with illustrations; editors applying for photographs and favourite 'hobby' of this new star on the firmament; journalists appealing for an interview; rival publishers with tempting and persistent bait; diffident request from Alexander that Miss O'Neill might be prevailed upon to contribute (expensively) to the "White Review" ... Gareth knew; and all these prosaic and troublesome matters were poetry in his silent singing of them. Gareth knew; he had imagined the scene often enough with—not Pat O'Neill as its hero. And a rueful smile twitched his lips, wondering if the girl were now astride of the table, in the delirium of insolent enjoyment once described by Graham Carr.
"And she'll swing her legs with the proper amount of—swing! As for me——"
Well, here he sat in the outer office.