Edith!
Oh, if he might! If Philomel might sing for her! Toast and poached eggs! Nectar and ambrosia! His little house a castle!
“But it isn’t mine own,” the young poet reminded himself; “there is still the mortgage.” He came down to earth, cleared the table, fed the pussy-cats. Then he went down to the post-box to get the mail.
The Barnes’ mail was rarely voluminous, rarely interesting. A bill or two, a letter from Judy—some futile advertising stuff.
This morning, however, there was a long envelope. In one corner was the name of the magazine to which, nearly six months before, Baldy had sent his prize cover design. The thing had almost gone out of his thoughts. He had long ceased to hope. Money did not miraculously fall into one’s lap.
He tore open the envelope. Within was a closely typed letter and a pale pink check.
The check was for two thousand dollars. He had won the prize!
Breathless with the thought of it, deprived of strength, he sat down on the terrace steps. Merrymaid and the kitten came down and angled for attention, but Baldy overlooked them utterly. The letter was astounding. The magazine had not only given him the prize but they wanted more of his work. They would pay well for it—and if he would come to New York at their expense, the art editor would like to talk it over!
Baldy, looking up from the pregnant phrases and catching Merrymaid’s eye upon him, demanded, “Now, what do you think of that? Shall I resign from the office? I’ll tell the world, I will.”
Oh, the thing might even make it possible for him to marry Edith. He could at least pay for the honeymoon—preserve some sense of personal independence while he worked towards fame. If she would only see it. That he must ask her to live for a time—in the little house. He’d make things easy for her,—oh, well, the thing could be done—it could be done.