“Now...” thought Letty—and produced “Silver Chimes.” Without a word of comment, so fraught was the moment with tense expectation, she pushed the copy across the table. Sebastian picked it up, wondering, and read aloud: “‘To Test Her Love,’ by Sebastian Levi...? Why, w-w-what on earth——?” he stammered. His eye fell on the illustration; then in silent bewilderment he flicked over a few of the pages. Letty watched him, her fingers curled tightly round the edge of the table. The lines of his mouth hardened. He spoke harshly:
“Is it a joke? Who put my name to this drivel?”
And the dancing joy in her eyes was quenched in a rush of tears. As before from anticipation, so now from disappointment, she remained mute.
“Answer me, Letty? Who put my name to this?”
“I did,” almost inaudibly.... But why was he so cross? Was it that his integrity recoiled from the notion of claiming credit for work not his own? Yes, it must be that. For the moment, she had forgotten his use of the term: drivel.
“But it is yours, really and truly, Sebastian. The idea is yours, all about the Test, and pretending not to be rich, and everything. I’d never have thought of it. I only did the writing part because—because you were so busy with your book. But it’s quite, quite fair that your name should be on the cover.”
“You wrote this?”
“Yes.” A tinge of pride in her assent. Had not the Editress said the tale was good? “Yes, indeed I did. Are you surprised?”
(Or was he already beginning to think her unwomanly?)
The waitress appeared with the tea-things, which she rattled down on the table. Sebastian buried himself anew in the histories of Geoffrey and Mavice, while Letty poured out the tea, and nibbled at a cress sandwich; furtively gleaming at him from under her eyelashes.