Both were
in a state of depression as they left the house.
'What think you of this story?' asked Biffen. 'Is this possible
in a woman of any merit?'
'Anything is possible in a woman,' Reardon replied, harshly.
They walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station. There,
with an assurance that he would come to a garret-supper before
leaving London, Reardon parted from his friend and turned
westward.
As soon as he had entered, Amy's voice called to him:
'Here's a letter from Jedwood, Edwin!'
He stepped into the study.
'It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do
to resist the temptation to open it.'
'Why shouldn't you have opened it?' said her husband, carelessly.
He tried to do so himself, but his shaking hand thwarted him at
first. Succeeding at length, he found a letter in the publisher's
own writing, and the first word that caught his attention was
'regret.' With an angry effort to command himself he ran through
the communication, then held it out to Amy.
She read, and her countenance fell. Mr Jedwood regretted that the
story offered to him did not seem likely to please that
particular public to whom his series of one-volume novels made
appeal.
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