I felt easier in my mind than I had felt for some time. A story came back by the nine o’clock post from a monthly magazine (to which I had sent it from mere bravado), but the thing did not depress me. I got out my glue-pot and began to fasten the rejection form to the wall, whistling a lively air as I did so.
While I was engaged in this occupation there was a testy rap at the door, and Mrs. Driver appeared. She eyed my manoeuvres with the rejection form with a severe frown. After a preliminary sniff she embarked upon a rapid lecture on what she called my irregular and untidy habits. I had turned her second-floor back, she declared, into a pig-stye.
“Sech a litter,” she said.
“But,” I protested, “this is a Bohemian house, is it not?”
She appeared so shocked—indeed, so infuriated, that I dared not give her time to answer.
“The gentleman below, he’s not very tidy,” I added diplomatically.
“Wot gent below?” said Mrs. Driver.
I reminded her of the night of my arrival.
“Oh, ’im,” she said, shaken. “Well, ’e’s not come back.”
“Mrs. Driver,” I said sternly, “you said he’d gone out for a stroll. I refuse to believe that any man would stroll for three weeks.”