"Do you think so?" he said. "I call it very funny. There's a touch of humour about their 'compliments' that'd be hard to beat."
"Ah," said Walford, "your mother-in-law's sense of humour isn't so keen and 'literary' as yours. She only sees that your year's work's not worth a tinker's curse!"
"Papa!" murmured Cynthia, wincing.
Kent's mouth closed viciously.
"Against your judgment on such a matter, sir," he said, "of course there can be no appeal."
"It ain't my judgment," answered Walford; "it's your own publishers'. It's no good putting on the sarcastic, my boy. Here"—he caught up the letter and slapped it—"here you've got the opinion of a practical man, and he tells you the thing's valueless. There's no getting away from facts."
"And I say the thing's strong, sound work," exclaimed Kent, "and the reader's an ass! Oh, what's the use of arguing with you? You see it rejected, and so to you it's rubbish; and when you see it paid for, to you it will be very good! I want some whisky—has 'Aunt Emily' drunk it all?" He helped himself liberally, and invited his father-in-law to follow his example. Walford shook his head with a grunt. "You won't have a drink? I will! I want to return thanks for Messrs. Cousins' compliments. It's very flattering to receive compliments from one's publishers. I'm afraid you none of you appreciate it so much as you ought. We're having a ripping evening, aren't we, with hysterics and rejections? And whisky's good for both. Well, sir, what have you got to say next?"
"I think we'll say 'good-night,'" said Mrs. Walford coldly; "I'll be round in the morning, Cynthia. Come, Sam, it's past ten!"
She rose, and put on her things, Kent assisting her. The stock-jobber took leave of him with a scowl; and when the last "good-night" had been exchanged, Cynthia and the unfortunate author stood on the hearth vis-à-vis. The girl was relieved that her parents were gone. The atmosphere had been electric and made her nervous of what might happen next. She had been looking forward, besides, to consoling him when the door closed—to his lying in her arms under her kisses, while she smoothed away his mortification. She could enter into his mood to-night better than she had entered into any of his moods yet, and she ached with sorrow for him. To turn to his wife on any matters connected with his work, however, never entered his head any more; so when she murmured deprecatingly, "Papa didn't mean anything by what he said, darling; you mustn't be vexed with him," all he replied was, "Oh, he hasn't made an enemy for life, my dear! If you're going up to your room now, I think I'll take a stroll."
She said, "Do, and—and cheer up!" But her heart sank miserably. He dropped a kiss on her cheek with a response as feeble as her own, and went out. A woman may have little comprehension of her husband's work, and yet feel the tenderest sympathies for the disappointments that it brings him, but of this platitude the novelist had shown himself ignorant.