But he only laughed; for she had made no attempt to stir from his arms.
PART II
CHAPTER I
"Good-bye, Kathleen; no, I won't forget about the fish." Gareth Temple ran down the steps of Pacific Villa, and swung the gate behind him. He carried under his arm a bundle of manuscript, which he had been examining the evening before. When he reached the office, more manuscript would be awaiting him. For he was still a reader of books. Three years ago he had transferred his services from Messrs. Dale and Dawson to the newer firm of Leslie Campbell. That was all the change of fortune which sixteen years had brought about.
Campbell had himself been a reader at Dale and Dawson, publishers. An excitable and energetic little Scotsman with no prudent instincts whatsoever, he set up business in a third-floor room above the bustling offices of a popular magazine. Assets: Four hundred pounds capital, and the assistance of one impertinent small boy. Invisible asset, a soul that was an infallible touchstone for genius. Gradually he made himself a name for the publication of works by that brilliant intolerant set of young writers who flourished under the banners of Impressionism, Futurism, Iconoclasm, Realism and Super-Realism, New Thought and Modern Decadence, with equal pleasure and superiority. Presently, and without need to reproach himself with any pandering to popular taste, he was able to boast an inner room to his offices; and added to his staff Gareth Temple and Guy Burnett, in capacities of reader and confidential clerk. Nevertheless, the firm's treasury continued to be fed for the most part on Campbell's enthusiasm; till, by way of steadying himself, he took into partnership Vincent Alexander, lately an undergraduate of Balliol; who, frigid and level-headed, succeeded by sheer weight of his twenty-five imperturbable years, in setting a limit to the indecent exuberances of Campbell's middle-age.
Then Graham Carr wrote "Piccadilly." And the firm began to prosper.
Gareth turned off the Strand, up a by-street, till he came to a shop-window flaunting innumerable replicas of the July number of "The Blue Sky"; design consisting of a smiling maiden running precariously along a rainbow, and leading a peacock on a red ribbon. He passed through a side-entrance and up a wooden stairway, till confronted by the familiar black lettering: "Leslie Campbell, Publisher," on an opaque glass door. Then he heard the quick pattering trip of Mr. Campbell on the stairs behind him; and waited, holding the door open.
"Thank ye, Temple. Ah, while I think of it, mek out a report on this, will ye?" A bulky parcel was thrust into the reader's arms. "And ye needn't let Mr. Alexander see it ... just yet. Understand?"
Gareth understood that the senior partner had happened upon a new genius who might, with luck, sell about ninety-seven copies of an edition.