“Hallo, Robinson!” he exclaimed, in his surprise, “you don’t mean to say that you——”
And then he stopped and regarded my youthful appearance very critically.
“Yes, Mr. Kenny—it’s a novel,” I said, modestly; “my first.”
“There’s plenty of it,” he remarked, drily. “I’ll send it upstairs at once. And I’ll wish you luck too; but,” he added, kindly, preparing to soften the shock of a future refusal, “we have plenty of these come in—about seven a day—and most of them go back to their writers again.”
“Ye-es, I suppose so,” I answered, with a sigh.
For awhile, however, I regarded the meeting as a happy augury—a lucky coincidence. I even had the vain, hopeless notion that Mr. Kenny might put in a good word for me, ask for special consideration, out of that kindly feeling which we had for each other, and which chess antagonists have invariably for each other, I am inclined to believe. But though we met three or four times a week, from that day forth not one word concerning the fate of my manuscript escaped the lips of Mr. Kenny. It is probable the incident had passed from his memory; he had nothing to do with the novel department itself, and the delivery of MSS. was a very common everyday proceeding to him. I was too bashful, perhaps too proud, an individual to ask any questions of him; but every evening that I encountered him I used to wonder “if he had heard anything,” if any news of the book’s fate had reached him, directly or indirectly; occasionally even, as time went on, I was disposed to imagine that he was letting me win the game out of kindness—for he was a gentle, kindly soul always—in order to soften the shock of a disappointment which he knew perfectly well was on its way towards me.
mr. robinson’s library.
the garden.