'I have offered to give him fifty pounds—down—and to take this rough unlicked thing he calls a Play. If I find time I shall, perhaps, rewrite the whole, and put it on the stage. It will then, of course, be my own—my own, Effie. Good-bye, child. I have not forgotten our talk—or my promise—if we remain on friendly relations.'
He went away. Effie sank into a chair. What she had done with her own work had never seemed to her half so terrible as what was now proposed to be done with her brother's work.
She crept into his room. He sat with his head in his hands, most mournful of bards since the world began.
'Archie, I know—I know; he has told me. Oh! Archie—do you think it is true?'
'Archie, I know—I know.'
'He says so, Effie. He says it is worthless.'
'Yet he will give you fifty pounds.'
'That is to please you—for your sake. The thing is worthless—no manager would look at it.'
'Yet—fifty pounds! Why should Mr. Feilding give fifty pounds—a whole fifty pounds—for a worthless play? Archie, don't do it—don't let him have it; wait a little—we will ask somebody else. Oh! I could tell you something. Wait—tell him, if you must say anything, that you will think it over.'