It had not struck him before that his imagined tale left him culpable. In a moment he rent the air with his lamentation.
"Can you ever forgive me my shameful carelessness?" he wound up. "But even if you do, it will matter little, for I can never forgive myself."
She softened at once. "You mustn't blame yourself, Mr. Didcott," she observed, earnestly. "It is an accident that might have happened to anyone."
He took her hand, and pressed it tenderly. "How good you are to me!" he said, brokenly.
She blushed and withdrew her hand hastily, and then felt a little sorry she had done so.
During the following weeks nothing was heard of the unfortunate manuscript. Didcott was always at Mr. Winder's house consulting with the daughter and devising schemes for the recovery of her novel.
Each day brought with it an increase of intimacy. The novel was still the ostensible cause of his visits, but as a subject for conversation it had begun to show a tendency to diminish in value. Something more purely personal commenced to take its place.
One day, about a month after the episode that has been related, Didcott and Miss Winder sat together in the latter's boudoir, chatting confidentially.
"I have been wondering whether I ought to write another book," observed Miss Winder, meditatively.
"I should not if I were you," replied Didcott, with considerable emphasis.