By and by he became vaguely aware that the partners were thoroughly upset over something that had occurred, and that all was not harmony in the firm since the interview with Pat O'Neill. He wondered if she could have refused to sign any contract till a literary agent should have inspected it in her interests. Campbell howled like a jackal at the very mention of an agent; and invariably, and with the utmost lack of manners, turned the species over to Alexander to deal with.
But even that would hardly account for the "two thundering bad tempers" of which Burnett complained to Gareth later on: "Wonder what our new darling of the gods can have done to upset 'em. I asked quite innocently when 'The Reverse of the Medal' was to be sent to the printer, and the chief nearly bit my head off."
But lunch with his confidential secretary seemingly loosened Campbell's tongue; so that Burnett, himself loyally sharing the prevalent mood of angry consternation, was able afterwards to enlighten Jimmy and the reader simultaneously.
"She's withdrawn the manuscript!"
"Not never!" Jimmy's eyes nearly goggled out of his head. And Gareth's: "What for?" sounded sharp and unnatural to his own ears. His blood was singing so loudly in his head that he could hardly hear Burnett's reply:
"Lord only knows. If our firm's not good enough for my lady, I should like to know what is. But the chief says she's not taking it to anyone else—simply has changed her mind about it and doesn't want to have it published at all. It's her book—what is one to do? Can't bring it out against the author's consent. Though it's criminal letting stuff like that be wasted. She can't have thought what good it might have done to US. We haven't nabbed a real winner since 'Piccadilly.' Well—there you are...."
He awoke to the fact that the Heart-breaker was his sole audience. Gareth had disappeared.
Gareth was on his way to Sydenham.
The maid who opened the door informed him that Miss Patricia was out, but would probably be in presently, and would he care to wait?
He paced for half an hour in her sitting-room. Then the furious barking of dogs and clang of bicycle bells drew him to the window—whence he just received a fleeting vision of Patricia, in a warm crimson jersey, coasting full speed down the hill, and leaping from the saddle, encumbered by an adoring frenzied surge of dogs and flappers.... Then she swung, with that loose supple movement of the hips that was so intensely hers, into the porch and out of sight.