“Yes,” she answered, with a sob in her throat; “the doctaire tell me nevaire must I have anuzzer. He tell me it will keel me. And I want so much—oh, I want leetle child!”
Hailing a cab, we were soon at our new home. She did not seem to take much interest; yet, when she heard the sounds of welcome from within, she brightened up. Then when the door was thrown open she gave a little gasp of pleasure.
“Oh, I’m glad, I’m glad.”
For Lorrimer had painted a banner, Welcome Home, above the fireplace; the sunshine flooded in; the flowers were everywhere, and a wondrous lunch was spread on the table. Then suddenly the two artists, standing on either side of the doorway, put mirlitons to their mouths and burst into the Marseillaise. They wrung her hand, and even (with my permission) saluted her on both cheeks; and she was so rarely glad to see them that her eyes shone with tears. So after all her homecoming was far from a sad one.
And after lunch and the good bottle of Pommard that Helstern had provided we discussed plans and prospects with the hope and enthusiasm of beginners; while she listened, but more housewife-like took stock of her new home and its practical possibilities.
Next day I began work again. My idea was to completely ignore my own ideals and turn out stuff according to magazine formula. I had made an analysis of some thirty magazine stories; it only remained to mix them according to recipe and serve hot. I continued to hire the rheumatic typewriter, and composed straight on to the machine, so that I accomplished at least one story a day.
Once more Anastasia took charge of the forwarding, but she seemed to have less enthusiasm now. It was as if her severe illness had taken something out of her. All the money I had been able to give her was seventy francs, and this was not very heartening. She got out her métier again; but she would often pause in her work as if her back pained her, and rub her eyes as if they too ached. Then with stubborn patience she would resume her toil.
One morning the manuscript of Tom, Dick and Harry was returned from the publisher, with a note to say that “at that time when the taste of the public was all for realistic fiction work of fancy stood little chance of success without a well-known name on the cover. As the policy of the firm was conservative they were obliged to return it.”
How I laughed over this letter. How bitterly, I thought, they would be chagrined when they found out who the unknown Silenus Starset was. I was even maliciously glad, and, chuckling, sent off the manuscript on another voyage of adventure.
I fairly bombarded the magazines with short stories. There was not one of any standing that was not holding a manuscript of mine. And such manuscripts, some of them! I was amazed at my cheek in offering them. I would select one of my twelve stock plots, alter the setting, give it a dexterous twist or two, and shoot it off. My mark was a minimum of a manuscript a day, and grimly I stuck to it.