Gerald began a fierce scowl at him—then grinned. Dear Gerald!
“Well?” smiled Horton. Always courteous was Horton, in manner.
“Heard,” muttered Gerald, “that you didn’t care what you published....”
“Oh!” said Horton. “Well, we don’t care how good it is, if that’s what you mean.”
You couldn’t guess that Gerald was so shy that he could scarcely speak. You thought he stammered just because he stammered, not because he was so shy that he could scarcely get a word out. A man had no right to look like Gerald, an ensign of the fallen Prince of Light, and be shy; but that was always Gerald’s trouble, he never was given the credit for being shy, he put himself between you and any sympathy with him, he made it clear that he didn’t want your infernal sympathy. Just then, for instance, he looked as though he had strayed into The New Voice to send us all to blazes on general principles. And Horton looked as though he was quite prepared to go. Horton preferred bad-tempered men.
“There’s this,” Gerald muttered, and lugged out an enormous typescript from the deep pocket of his grey coat. “Novel,” he scowled at Horton. “Thought perhaps....” and he planted the thing with a thump on Horton’s desk. Horton grinned. Horton had had much too much to do with professional novelists to think that a novel by a subaltern of Grenadiers was necessarily unreadable. “Bit long, isn’t it?” he smiled.
“Long?” Gerald stammered. “Of course it’s long! Been writing it for four whole months.”
“Ought to be good,” said Home gravely.
“It’s awful,” grinned Gerald, “but, you see....”
“Quite,” said Horton busily. “Now, I’ll....”