For three weeks he had been living in a little private hell of indecision. But now there was a chance of winning through. His duty was not yet absolutely clear, but he was not without hope that it would become so. In that time he had been thinking very hard and very deep. And by some means, he had added a cubit to his stature since he stood last on that tea-stained hearthrug in the quasi-comfort of that overfurnished "boo-door." It was a new and enlarged Mr. Harper who now confronted a more composed and dignified Miss Dobbs.
"Well, Harry," said Miss Dobbs, "it is nice to see you here again."
He was touched by such a tone of magnanimity. Somehow, he felt that it was more than he deserved.
"How's the new story getting on?" There was not a sign of the breakdown at present. "Will it be as good as the old one?" This was a welcome return to her first phase of generous interest; to the Miss Dobbs of whom he had memories not wholly unpleasant.
"I think it is going to be better," he said gravely. "Much better. Anyway, I intend it to be."
"That's right. I like to hear that. Nothing like ambition. I suppose you'll get another three hundred for this one?"
"Five," said the young man. "That's if the editor likes it."
"My!" said Miss Dobbs, with an involuntary flash of the wary eyes. "And that's only for the serial."
"Yes."
"And, of course, you'll be able to bring it out as a book as well?"