That must do
for the book. Already, with the penning of the last word, all its
scenes, personages, dialogues had slipped away into oblivion; he
knew and cared nothing more about them.
'Amy, you will have to correct the proofs for me. Never as long
as I live will I look upon a page of this accursed novel. It has
all but killed me.'
'The point is,' replied Amy, 'that here we have it complete. Pack
it up and take it to the publishers' to-morrow morning.'
'I will.'
'And--you will ask them to advance you a few pounds?'
'I must.'
But that undertaking was almost as hard to face as a rewriting of
the last volume would have been. Reardon had such superfluity of
sensitiveness that, for his own part, he would far rather have
gone hungry than ask for money not legally his due. To-day there
was no choice. In the ordinary course of business it would be
certainly a month before he heard the publishers' terms, and
perhaps the Christmas season might cause yet more delay. Without
borrowing, he could not provide for the expenses of more than
another week or two.
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