"But it's 'some' story, I assure you it is. If you send it to the Rotunda or the Covent Garden it may mean big money."
Quite absurdly the financial aspect had not presented itself.
"Well, you're potty," said Miss Dobbs, with despondency. "Don't you know that Bert Hobson, who writes those stories for the Rotunda, makes his thousands a year?"
Mr. Harper, who had never heard of Bert Hobson or of the Rotunda, seemed greatly surprised.
"Why, you are as green as green," said Miss Dobbs reproachfully. "It's such a nugget of thrills, you ought to see that it gets published. You ought really."
But in spite of her conviction it was some time before he felt able to take her advice. Such unpractical reluctance on the part of genius gave her pain. It seemed to lower its value. He must be a genius to have written a book, but it was a great pity that he should confirm the world's estimate of genius by behaving like one.
Why had he taken so much trouble if he was not going to get a nice fat check out of it?
He had written it because he felt he must.
It's a very sloppy reason, was the unexpressed opinion of Miss Dobbs.
After such a hopeless admission on the part of the young man with the queer eyes, Miss Dobbs felt so hurt that she did not appear in the shop for three weeks. And when at last she came again, she learned that the story of Dick Smith and the brigantine Excelsior was still in its drawer and had yet to be seen by anyone.