"Rather!"
"Then…" Gora rose and took a magazine from the table beside her bed. She spread it open on her lap, when she had resumed her seat, and handled it as Alexina had seen young mothers fondle their first-born.
"It's here. Just out."
"Oh!" Alexina gave a little shriek of genuine anticipation. "Read it to me. Quick. I can't wait."
Gora led a lonely life outside of her work, a lonely inner life always. She had never had an intimate friend, and she suddenly reflected that there had been a certain measure of sadness in her joy both when her manuscripts were accepted and to-day when for the first time she had gazed at herself in print…. She had had no one to rejoice with her…. She felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to Alexina.
But she gave this young wife of her brother whom she knew as little as Alexina knew her, another swift suspicious glance…. No, there was nothing of Alexina's usual high and careless courtesy in that eager almost excited face.
"I'd love to have your opinion…. I read very badly…. Make allowances…."
"Oh, fire away. If I'd written a story and had it accepted by that magazine I'd read it from the housetops."
Gora read the story well enough, and Alexina's mind did not wander even to Gathbroke. It was written in a pure direct vigorous English. A little less self-consciousness and it would have been distinguished. The story itself was built craftily; she had been coached by a clever instructor who was a successful writer of short stories himself; and it worked up to a climax of genuine drama. But this was merely the framework, the flexible technique for the real Gora. The story had not only an original point of view but it pulsed with the insurgent resentful passionate spirit of the writer.
Alexina gave a little gasp as Gora finished.