"I do thank you ... that explains why the atmosphere up at the office of the National was as cold as the refrigerator-box of a meat car, when I was up there an hour ago ... but they were not as frank as you ... they acted like a company of undertakers officiating at my funeral."
I was glad to find myself back in my little cottage, that same night—back in my little cottage, and in the arms of the woman who was everything to me, no matter if they said she spelled the ruination of my career.
For any man, I held, and still hold, who lets a woman ruin his career, ought to have it ruined.
I did not tell her of what Dr. Ward had told me. Why cause her unnecessary worry?
After all, the magazine world was not the only medium to present my literary wares to the public. There remained the book world, a less narrow and prejudiced one.
Kennerley had written me that he waited eagerly the completion of my Biblical play.
And Zueblin, of the now defunct Twentieth Century had just sent me a twenty-five dollar check for a poem called Lazarus Speaks.