Mrs. Failing's old publishers, to whom the book was submitted,
replied that, greatly as they found themselves interested, they did not
see their way to making an offer at present. They were very polite, and
singled out for special praise "Andante Pastorale," which Rickie had
thought too sentimental, but which Agnes had persuaded him to include.
The stories were sent to another publisher, who considered them for six
weeks, and then returned them. A fragment of red cotton, Placed by Agnes
between the leaves, had not shifted its position.

"Can't you try something longer, Rickie?" she said; "I believe we're on
the wrong track. Try an out--and--out love-story."

"My notion just now," he replied, "is to leave the passions on the
fringe." She nodded, and tapped for the waiter: they had met in a
London restaurant. "I can't soar; I can only indicate. That's where
the musicians have the pull, for music has wings, and when she says
'Tristan' and he says 'Isolde,' you are on the heights at once. What do
people mean when they call love music artificial?"

"I know what they mean, though I can't exactly explain. Or couldn't
you make your stories more obvious? I don't see any harm in that. Uncle
Willie floundered hopelessly. He doesn't read much, and he got muddled.
I had to explain, and then he was delighted. Of course, to write down to
the public would be quite another thing and horrible. You have certain
ideas, and you must express them. But couldn't you express them more
clearly?"

"You see--" He got no further than "you see."

"The soul and the body. The soul's what matters," said Agnes, and tapped
for the waiter again. He looked at her admiringly, but felt that she was
not a perfect critic. Perhaps she was too perfect to be a critic. Actual
life might seem to her so real that she could not detect the union of
shadow and adamant that men call poetry. He would even go further and
acknowledge that she was not as clever as himself--and he was stupid
enough! She did not like discussing anything or reading solid books, and
she was a little angry with such women as did. It pleased him to make
these concessions, for they touched nothing in her that he valued. He
looked round the restaurant, which was in Soho and decided that she was
incomparable.

"At half-past two I call on the editor of the 'Holborn.' He's got a
stray story to look at, and he's written about it."

"Oh, Rickie! Rickie! Why didn't you put on a boiled shirt!"