He waited, fiercely.
A door opened and closed. He heard a heavy step. Madame Watt entered the room, frowning a little. 'What is it, Henry? Why did you come?'
'I want you to see this,' he said, thrusting the cheque into her hand. Then, before she could more than glance at the figures, he was forcing another paper on her. 'And this!' he cried. 'Please read it!'
She, still frowning, turned the pages.
'But what's all this, Henry?'
'Can't you see? I went around this morning. Mr Merchant had it all ready for me. It's Galbraith's Magazine. They're going to print my stories and pay me three thousand. That cheque's for part of it. I get book royalties besides. And twenty-five a week for three years against the price of new work. That's just so I won't write for anybody else. And Mr Galbraith himself promised me he'd make me famous. He's going to advertise me all over the country. Right away. This year. He says there's been nothing like me since Kipling and Stevenson!' Printed here, coldly, this impassioned outburst may seem to border on absurdity. But shrewd, strong-willed Madame Watt, taking it in, studying him, found it far from absurd. The egotism in it, she perceived, was that of youth as much as of genius. And the blazing eyes, the working face, the emotional uncertainty in the voice, these were to be reckoned with. They were youth—gifted, uncontrolled, very nearly irresistible youth. And as she said, brusquely—'Sit down, Henry!'—and herself dropped heavily into a chair and began deliberately reading the document of the great Galbraith, she knew, in her curiously storm-beaten old heart, that she was sparring for time. Before her, still on his feet, apparently unaware that she had spoken, unaware of everything on earth outside of his own turbulent breast, stood an incarnation of primal energy.
She sighed, as she turned the page. Once she shook her head. She found momentary relief in the thought, so often the only comfort of weary old folk, that youth, at least, never knows its power.
I think he was talking all the time—pouring out an incoherent, tremulous torrent of words. Once or twice she moved her hand as if to brush him away.
When she finally raised her head, he was taking the wrappings from a little box.
'Well, Henry? Just what do you want? Where are we getting, with all this?'