Presently he gave a short, angry laugh.
“What’s that?” asked Philippa, without turning.
“Oh, nothing. Only a letter from Barker. He’s returning that last story.” He crumpled up the envelope and threw it savagely into the fire.
“The Survivor?” asked Philippa, without much enthusiasm.
“Yes.” Robert was still glancing through the letter with worried, angry eyes; presently he began to read snatches from it. “‘Too thin! ... interest not maintained ... scarcely up to the standard’—Rot!” He dashed the letter down onto his desk. “What do they want?”
“I’ve finished the letter,” remarked Philippa, after a silence.
For a moment Robert regarded the back of her head without speaking.
“You should try not to be so effusively sympathetic, Philippa,” he said at last, sarcastically.
She turned her head and looked at him with a calmly provoking gaze.
“My dear Robert, if I were effusive over every one of your returned manuscripts, I should be a wreck by this time. I thought you didn’t care for popular success?”