‘Poor little girl! Et tu!’
He kissed her affectionately, and went his way. In the ordinary course of things Nancy would not have seen him again for ten days or a fortnight. She expected a letter very soon, but on the fourth evening Tarrant’s fingers tapped at the window-pane. In his hand was the brown paper parcel, done up as when he received it.
Nancy searched his face, her own perturbed and pallid.
‘How long have you been working at this?’
‘Nearly a year. But not every day, of course. Sometimes for a week or more I could get no time. You think it bad?’
‘No,’—puff—‘not in any sense’—puff—‘bad. In one sense, it’s good. But’—puff—‘that’s a private sense; a domestic sense.’
‘The question is, dear, can it be sold to a publisher.’
‘The question is nothing of the kind. You mustn’t even try to sell it to a publisher.’
‘Why not? You mean you would be ashamed if it came out. But I shouldn’t put my own name to it. I have written it only in the hope of making money, and so helping you. I’ll put any name to it you like.’
Tarrant smoked for a minute or two, until his companion gave a sign of impatience. He wore a very good-humoured look.