“Aren’t you hungry, Sebastian?”
He made no reply; went on reading. He had as a boy devoured a great many “penny dreadfuls” of the blood-and-thunder type; but this was his first experience of girls’ cheap sentimental fiction. It was a revelation. Now he understood one or two curious ingredients which had hitherto always puzzled him in the composition of Letty.—But what did she mean by saying that his was the original idea of Lord Geoffrey Challoner’s utterly inane proceedings? Then, slowly, that dawned on him as well. He shoved aside “Silver Chimes,” so that it fell on the dusty floor.
“Letty, did you think it was by way of a test, a test of you, that I gave up my income?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“My God, no!”
“Then why——”
“You wouldn’t understand why,” grimly; “it won’t translate into novelette terms.”
Letty stretched out her hand for a cream-cake, pink and chocolate. It fell from her shaking fingers on to her skirt. She gazed hopelessly at the stain. It was all of a piece with this hateful afternoon, to spoil every one of her illusions, and her new costume into the bargain.
“I expect my hat’s all spotted by the rain, too,” she reflected dreamily. And he had called her story “drivel.”... With a quick spurt of anger at his lofty denunciation, Letty cried:
“The Editress said I had the sincere touch, so there!”