Reardon glanced at her, and wished to make some reply, but he could not say what was in his thoughts.
He worked on at his story. Before he had reached the end of it, ‘Margaret Home’ was published, and one day arrived a parcel containing the six copies to which an author is traditionally entitled. Reardon was not so old in authorship that he could open the packet without a slight flutter of his pulse. The book was tastefully got up; Amy exclaimed with pleasure as she caught sight of the cover and lettering:
‘It may succeed, Edwin. It doesn’t look like a book that fails, does it?’
She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one of the volumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter.
‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘What hellish torment it was to write that page! I did it one morning when the fog was so thick that I had to light the lamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read the words. And to think that people will skim over it without a suspicion of what it cost the writer!—What execrable style! A potboy could write better narrative.’
‘Who are to have copies?’
‘No one, if I could help it. But I suppose your mother will expect one?’
‘And—Milvain?’
‘I suppose so,’ he replied indifferently. ‘But not unless he asks for it. Poor old Biffen, of course; though it’ll make him despise me. Then one for ourselves. That leaves two—to light the fire with. We have been rather short of fire-paper since we couldn’t afford our daily newspaper.’
‘Will you let me give one to Mrs Carter?’