"That's what I want you to do," said Turquand. "Let's hear all about it. What do you think of that whisky? Half a crown, my boy; my latest discovery! I think it's damned good myself."
He listened to the recital with an occasional smile, and somehow, now the trouble was past, many of the circumstances displayed a comic side to the narrator. What was quite destitute of humour was the present, and when they fell to discussing this, both men were glum.
"I suppose you haven't been able to do anything with the novel?" Kent asked. "Has it made the round yet, or does a publisher remain who hasn't seen it?"
"It came back last week from Shedlock and Archer. Oh yes, publishers remain. It's at Thurgate and Tatham's now; I packed it off to them on Friday. Farqueharsen was no use; I tried him, as you asked; he rejected it in a few days. I wrote you that, didn't I?"
"You did communicate the gratifying intelligence. Where has it been?"
Turquand produced a pocket-book.
"Farqueharsen, Rowland Ellis, Shedlock and Archer," he announced. "I must enter 'Thurgate and Tatham.' I dare say you'll place it somewhere in the long-run; we haven't exhausted the good firms yet. By-the-bye, the front page has got a bit dilapidated; you'd better copy that out and restore the air of virgin freshness when Thurgate sends it home."
"You expect he will, then?"
"I don't know what to expect, you seem so infernally unlucky with it. For the life of me, I don't know why it wasn't taken by Cousins, in the first instance. I looked it through again the other night, and I consider it's—I don't want to butter you, but I consider it's great work; by Jove, I do!"
Kent glowed; he felt, as he had done all along, that it was the best of which he was capable, and praise of it was very dear to him, even though the praise was a friend's.