"To-morrow," he said, "I shall know if I have won."
"Or," his wife suggested faintly, "if you have lost."
"HE BEGAN TO UNFASTEN IT WITH HANDS WHICH TREMBLED."
"Or, as you say, if I have lost. But we won't speak of losing. I have never put my heart into anything as I have put it into this. I am sure that 'The Beggar' is the best work I have ever done—I am sure of it. I will go further, and say I believe it is as good work as I shall ever do. Upon my honour, Philippa, something tells me I shall win—it does! Oh, if I could only win!"
He had arranged that a copy of the issue of the paper containing the announcement should be sent to him by post. That morning the postman brought him two enclosures. One was a bulky parcel. When he saw it, his heart, all at once, ceased beating. He had to gasp for breath. Without a word, he began to unfasten it, with hands which trembled. Philippa bustled about the breakfast table, as if her own heart was not working like a wheezy pair of bellows.
"'BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY! I AM PHILIP AYRE.'"
"Philippa! it's 'The Beggar'! the manuscript—come back again!"
"Never mind." How she tried to speak in the most commonplace of voices. "You can send it somewhere else. It's sure to get accepted."