rly yet taking care to keep his
weight still on the manuscript, that she laughed heartily. He surely
wasn't serious now?

He looked extremely hurt. "Very well," he said, getting up. "If you
think it's so funny, that's all right. I suppose, now, you've done
with me: you've got all out of me you needed: so now you don't even
tell me that you're trying to create." He got up from the bureau with
much dignity and moved towards the door. One sheet of the manuscript
stuck to his clothes until he reached the centre-table. She was just
wondering what to do about this, when it fluttered downward. That
broke her inaction.

"Oh, no," she said, "don't be stuffy. I never meant it. I thought you
were being ironical about my 'art' and I can't ever see it. Please
don't be offended, Ally." In spite of her announced resolve she hardly
ever called him that, and now she said it with a slight burr, dwelling
on it till the name became a thing of beauty, almost a caress.

He wavered at the door; but he was shrewd in business by heredity.
"Well, will you let me read it?" he said firmly.

"Yes, if you really want to," she replied. "I'll fetch the other
half." Secretly she longed for an opinion, and she would never dare to
ask for Hubert's. "Promise not to look at this bit," she said, coy as
a young singer. "I couldn't bear you to see it till you are right
away."

He promised and she left him to his thoughts, which were of an
expectant nature. She was a girl that he had never really understood
(in actual practice he had very small experience of girls), and he knew
well enough that first books, even when all fiction, are half true. He
was amused inwardly at her simplicity in lending him the manuscript.

She came back with something like a baby scrap-book in her hand. "I
got bored with writing in this," she said. "It was so uncomfortable,
the edges cut my hand." Then, as though half repenting; "You must
promise not to look at it till you get home and never to tell Hubert."

"Is that likely?" he asked, referring to the last condition. It made
the business far more thrilling.

He had the common sense, however, to see that she was already doubtful
of her wisdom: so that as soon as volume and loose sheets were in his
hand, he changed the subject tactfully.

"Well," he asked, "and how is the new book going?"

"Oh, isn't it awful?" Helena replied. "I don't know if I ought to tell
you, but it's not sold at all: not, I me