He read a sentence or two and then looked up at the clock.
"I have wired to Miss Aylmer to expect me at twelve: it is past that hour now. I really must ask you to pardon me."
"Miss Aylmer will not be in. Miss Aylmer has left Prince's Mansions. I happened to call there and know what I am saying. Will you go on reading? You want your story. I believe your printers are waiting for it even now."
Franks fidgeted impatiently. Once again his eyes lit upon the page. As he read, Bertha's own eyes devoured his face. She knew each word of that first page. She had taken special and extra pains with it; it represented her best, her very best; it was strong, perfect in style, and her treatment of her subject was original; there was a note of passion and pathos, there was a deep undercurrent of human feeling in her words. Franks read to the end.
If he turned the page Bertha felt that her victory would be won—if he closed the manuscript she had still to fight her battle. Her heart beat quickly. She wondered what the Fates had in store for her.
Franks at last came to the final word; he hesitated, half looked up, then his fingers trembled. He turned the page. Bertha saw by the look on his face that he had absolutely forgotten her. She gave a brief sigh: the time of tension was over, the victory was won. She rose and approached him.
"I can take that to another house," she said.
"No, no," said Franks; "there is stuff in this. It is quite up to the usual mark. So Florence gave it to you to bring to me. Now, you know, I do not quite like the tone nor does my chief; but the talent is unmistakable."
"You will publish it, then?"
"Certainly. I see it is the usual length. If you will pardon me, as things are pressing, I will ring and give this to the printers."