"Shall I wait outside, mum?"
"Confound you, no," shouted Didcott. "Go right away."
"Right away," echoed Miss Winder.
The constable turned and left the room, not dissatisfied with the results of his interview. When the door had closed on him, Didcott turned to Miss Winder.
"What will you think of me? What can you think of me? Of course you will never speak to me again."
"I—I don't understand. Why ever did you throw my story into the water?"
Didcott groaned. "I would to heaven I had thrown myself. How I could have done so monstrous a thing, I can't understand."
"But why? You must have had some kind of reason," persisted the young lady.
"Your father insisted that it should be published in the Didactic Weekly, and it seemed the only way to get rid of it," blurted out Didcott.
Miss Winder drew back a pace. "But you liked it. You said it reminded you of George Eliot at her best. You said it was a work of genius."