He spoke more quietly. “Mr. Stirling,” he said, “I'm very sorry about this, the whole thing has been unfortunate. Excuse me that I spoke angrily; let us not think any more about it.”
I stood there, feeling almost like crying, I was so nervous.
“Now, about that manuscript,” he went on, “I'm doing what I can to learn about it. It's been there all along, as I told you, and you will hear about it soon. Why, Mr. Stirling, I even took the trouble to send my secretary down there yesterday to make sure that it was all right.”
“I did not want you to go to any such trouble,” I stammered.
“That's all right,” he said, “don't mention it. Now they will have decided in a few days, and I will write you—”
“No, please do not,” I said, still with my abject humility. “Don't take any more trouble—let me go there and find out—”
“By no means!” said he. “Take my advice and don't go near there again under any circumstances. You can't tell how much an author hurts himself by troubling a publisher as you have done. Don't go near there—let me write to you.”
I promised that I would; and then with more abjectness I got myself out of that room, and I went out and sat down upon a step near by, simply shaking like a leaf.
“Oh, heavens!” I gasped. “That was horrible! Horrible!”