“Everything, child! You see before you the man who has just conquered the world. All of it. And no worlds left. Mr. Alexander H. Bates.”
“Oh,” said she, thinking swiftly back—“your novel!”
“Right. My novel.”
“But it isn't finished, Henry.”
“Not quite half done.”
“Then, how can—”
He raised a long hand and rose. He gazed down benignly at her. “The greatest publisher in these U. S. has had the good fortune to read the first fourteen chapters. A whisper blew to me yesterday of the way things were going—before I wrote you. But the word this morning was not a whisper. Susan. It was an ear-splitting yell. Mister Greatest Publisher personally sent for me. Told me he had been looking for me—exactly me!—these twenty-eight years. And here I am. Money now if I need it. And do I need it? God, do I need it! And fame later—when I get the book done. Now, child, tell me how glad you are. At once.”
He walked the porch; came back and stood before her; grinned and grinned.
She could not find words. Soberly her eyes followed him. Her set mouth softened. Her tightened muscles relaxed until she was leaning back limp in the chair.
“Isn't it the devil, Sue!” said he. “The one thing my heart was set on was to wear that good suit. Sue, I was going to put it all over this suburb of yours—just smear 'em! And look—I have to go and forget. Nothing comes out to see you but the same disgraceful old gipsy. How could I?”