"I'll go with you."
"You stay here and eat!"
"You need somebody along—"
"Nonsense! I'm used to it. I won't hear of your going!"
And so we argued a little and she had her way. She went out alone in the rain with her misery.
There was a message saying that Harold had called.
I phoned back.
His usually calm voice was raised with emotion. "I got word the serial was done and Bob Durfree called before I sent for it. I've got some bad news for you, Phil. They've been dissatisfied with Durfree's editorial policy for quite a while. Over the weekend, the Board met and they've hired a new editor. Serials are out, from now on. I reminded the new editor that the characters in your story belong to them—and you can't sell it anywhere else. He said he was sorry; said he wanted short stories about Cynthia, as usual. But no serials. You know, they never consider a request as a commitment. I'm as sore as I can be! I realize you were counting on the money for your new house. But—can't you change the characters and do it over and let me try it on somebody else? It's a mighty good story!"
Harold is not just my literary representative. He is my friend. I didn't want him to guess how I really felt.
I told him I'd decide later whether to write the serial over or to chuck it. I hung up. Went to the desk. The carbon copy of my summer's work was sitting there, mute and blurry in its box. I took it out and fingered it and wondered how long it would be before I'd get to that sober book which would try to tell what certain men had learned of human instinct and how different it was from what most of the rest of mankind believed.