The clock ticked fussily through the stillness. Gareth, proof-correcting, bent wearily over the long strips of evil-smelling print. Quick steps on the stone stairs outside; and the door burst open to admit a man in a worn Norfolk jacket, and square heavy boots; giving him, with his tanned skin and boyish blue eyes, somewhat the appearance of a country squire.
"Hullo. Where's everybody?"
"That you, Mr. Carr? The chief is busy, I think; shall I call him?"
"No, it's all right; I only strolled in to sit on the table and swing my legs." He glanced humorously at Gareth; and, having nothing better to do for the moment, dropped into casual conversation: "Has it ever struck you, Temple, what a wonderful thing it is to have the right to break in without apologies on a real live publisher, and swing one's legs from his real live dirty untidy desk? I used to pace up and down outside here, before you had decided on my fate—God! what a time it lasted!—and picture myself doing just that."
"Were we a long time? Yes, I remember now, the Chief was away. But you never enquired?"
"No. And d'you know, if the ordeal of waiting had lasted a decade longer, I should never have screwed myself to the point of asking for a decision."
"Why?"
"One is possessed by a curious spirit of fatalism where the first book is concerned. Things must take their course. What a period that was of ghastly thrills, imagining all the accidents of fire and water which were destroying my precious manuscript. And now——"
"Now you've got there, yes. There's been an order from Hale's for two-fifty more copies of 'Piccadilly.'"
"Good!" Carr made as if to pass on; then paused to say. "Had anything worth while up lately?"