For a week the manuscript, roughly wrapped up in its original covering of brown paper, lay undisturbed on the editor's table. Sometimes his eyes dwelt on it with concentrated hatred, but he never touched it. He went on with his work as if it did not exist, but he was never unconscious of its presence.
At last he told himself that he had come to a decision. He would exhaust every method to prevent its publication in the Didactic Weekly. If necessary, he would appeal personally to Miss Winder—on his knees, if that would help matters. If all was in vain, he would resign.
Resign! The very thought gave him indescribable pangs.
"It hasn't come to that yet," he said. "I must exhaust all possibilities first." He shook his fist at the manuscript novel. "I wish it were at the bottom of the sea."
A day or two later he received a note from Mr. Winder, inviting him to dine the following evening. "I have told my daughter," the letter ran, "that you have been reading her novel, and she is most anxious to know your opinion. She wonders whether you would mind bringing the MS., so that she may go through it with you, with a view, no doubt, of pointing out certain beauties you may have missed."
"This is my opportunity," said Didcott, grimly, "and I will take advantage of it."
The next day he presented himself at the house, with the manuscript under his arm. Leaving it in the care of a servant, he was shown into the drawing-room. Mr. Winder came forward hastily as he entered.
"My dear fellow," he said, rather nervously, "how good of you to come at such short notice. I don't think you have met my daughter. Elsie, this is Mr. Didcott."
Didcott bowed. He glanced at the girl before him.