Reardon was not so old in authorship that he could open
the packet without a slight flutter of his pulse. The book was
tastefully got up; Amy exclaimed with pleasure as she caught
sight of the cover and lettering:
'It may succeed, Edwin. It doesn't look like a book that fails,
does it?'
She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one
of the volumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter.
'Good God!' he cried. 'What hellish torment it was to write that
page! I did it one morning when the fog was so thick that I had
to light the lamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read
the words. And to think that people will skim over it without a
suspicion of what it cost the writer!--What execrable style! A
potboy could write better narrative.'
'Who are to have copies?'
'No one, if I could help it. But I suppose your mother will
expect one?'
'And--Milvain?'
'I suppose so,' he replied indifferently. 'But not unless he asks
for it. Poor old Biffen, of course; though it'll make him despise
me. Then one for ourselves. That leaves two--to light the fire
with.
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