For a few seconds Mrs. Damerel bore the astonished
gaze of her admirer, then, her expression scarcely
changing, she walked steadily to the door and vanished.
The silence was prolonged till broken by Beatrice’s
laugh.
’Has she been bamboozling you, old man?
I didn’t know what was going on. You had
bad luck with the daughter; shouldn’t wonder
if the mother would suit you better, all said and
done.’
Crewe seated himself and gave vent to his feelings
in a phrase of pure soliloquy: ‘Well, I’m
damned!’
’I cut in just at the right time, did I?—No
malice. I’ve had my hit back at her, and
that’s enough.’
As the man of business remained absorbed in his thoughts,
Beatrice took a chair. Presently he looked up
at her, and said savagely:
‘What the devil do you want?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then take it and go.’
But Beatrice smiled, and kept her seat.
Nancy stood before her husband with a substantial
packet in brown paper. It was after breakfast,
at the moment of their parting.
’Here is something I want you to take, and look
at, and speak about the next time you come.’
‘Ho, ho! I don’t like the look of
it.’ He felt the packet. ’Several
quires of paper here.’
‘Be off, or you’ll miss the train.’
‘Poor little girl! Et tu!’
He kissed her affectionately, and went his way.
In the ordinary course of things Nancy would not have
seen him again for ten days or a fortnight. She
expected a letter very soon, but on the fourth evening
Tarrant’s fingers tapped at the window-pane.
In his hand was the brown paper parcel, done up as
when he received it.
Nancy searched his face, her own perturbed and pallid.
‘How long have you been working at this?’
’Nearly a year. But not every day, of course.
Sometimes for a week or more I could get no time.
You think it bad?’
’No,’—puff—’not
in any sense’—puff—’bad.
In one sense, it’s good. But’—puff—’that’s
a private sense; a domestic sense.’
‘The question is, dear, can it be sold to a
publisher.’
’The question is nothing of the kind. You
mustn’t even try to sell it to a publisher.’
’Why not? You mean you would be ashamed
if it came out. But I shouldn’t put my
own name to it. I have written it only in the
hope of making money, and so helping you. I’ll
put any name to it you like.’
Tarrant smoked for a minute or two, until his companion
gave a sign of impatience. He wore a very good-humoured
look.
‘It’s more than likely you might get the
thing accepted—’
‘Oh, then why not?’ she interrupted eagerly,
with bright eyes.
’Because it isn’t literature, but a little
bit of Nancy’s mind and heart, not to be profaned
by vulgar handling. To sell it for hard cash
would be horrible. Leave that to the poor creatures
who have no choice. You are not obliged to go
into the market.’
