'
'Two or three hundred pounds!' He repeated it with a shake of the
head. 'Ah, if that were possible!'
'But that's really a paltry sum. What would fifty novelists you
could name say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a
book? How much do you suppose even Markland got for his last?'
'Didn't sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty.'
'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book
ceases to be talked of.'
'Never mind. I'm sick of the word "pounds."'
'So am I.'
She sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence.
'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural
dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of
money?'
'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades,
and Ajax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'
So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat
with folded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the
epic humour. In a few minutes it was as if no difficulties
threatened their life. Every now and then Reardon looked up from
his translating with a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined.
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