"All right, darling; it's I who deserve the kicking; I'm one of those terrible persons who wince at candid criticism ... the reader read, you know. But I'm glad you liked the book."
He submitted it to Messrs. Jernyngham, of the Booke-Shoppe, who refused it with praiseworthy promptitude, and quite sincere regrets that the latter portion of the book had not fulfilled the promise of its opening. They hoped, however, to have an opportunity of seeing more of Mr. Temple's work.
"Send it to Locker and Swyn," advised Patricia, when her husband, with a poor attempt at a laugh, informed her of the rejection.
"Yes, it's more in their line," he agreed.
He thought. "Supposing no publishing-house will accept it, and I shall have to tell her each time it comes back.... She will remember how quickly Campbell snapped up hers. Nonsense, she remembers already. How long can the MS. travel round? How many publishers of fiction are there in the United Kingdom? She won't let me give in before it has been sent back by every one. But it's as good as hers, quite as good; this is only my old luck dogging me. Say a hundred and fifty publishers and three and a half weeks at each——"
Locker and Swyn freed him from this sort of arithmetic by accepting "The Round Adventure." They asked him if he could polish up its most conspicuous inequalities; and he replied, albeit grateful to them for the release, that he was incapable of adding or subtracting a single word from the original. And this was not author's arrogance, but a genuine statement of fact. So they shrugged their shoulders; made him a tolerable contract; and promised to bring the book out in the autumn season. "Say in October, Mr. Temple." He assented. It was now April. Six months to wait before the solid consummation of all his illusions.
There had been sadly little illusion about the actual acceptance of the book. Locker and Swyn themselves were dummies; and the business was run by a very practical manager, John Forrester; who, keen to win the same prestige for "spotting genius" as Leslie Campbell, lacked the little Scotsman's real enthusiasm for first-class stuff and supreme indifference to big sales. It was reported that Forrester's beard had gone hoary from the day that "Piccadilly" went into its thirty-seventh edition.... He had been one of the famous Nineteen who had turned down Graham Carr; and like his eighteen sorrowing confrères, could instantly be subdued by airy mention of this instance of his blindness. Alexander was exceedingly assiduous in reminder when chance threw him together with the manager of the rival firm.
Patricia spent the summer in pursuit of as many sports as were possible to one whose headquarters were in St. John's Wood. She was essentially of the type who, given the opportunity, would have made a splendid shot and an excellent horsewoman. As it was, she played golf; learnt to drive a friend's motor; dashed down for several week-ends to the seaside bungalow of another friend, for the sake of the swimming; and when nothing better was forthcoming, took Vercingetorix for long country tramps. She seemed eager to avoid more thoughtful indoor occupations. Her creed was to soar with an idea, and accept with decent cheerfulness the risk of broken bones. She had, metaphorically, broken a good many bones on her fall from this last star-scamper, which had landed her for good or for evil Gareth Temple's wife.... And one might as well walk and swim and drive and golf.
Poor old Gareth—was he brooding too? But his book was accepted; and he still loved her. Whereas her book was waste stuff; and——
Kathleen had foreseen all this. Patricia thought she had penetrated at last with exact apprehension to that lady's point of view. It had puzzled her before that the other should have yielded her claims so easily. But now her motive was stripped bare. "Lord! I don't blame her. Sixteen years of it. And no tangible grievance to lay at his door. Just that—that dry-rot in his system. No wonder she wanted me to have a taste of the same Hell!"