"I hear that you've been very ill, Mr. Westcott. I'm so dreadfully sorry
and I do hope that you're better?"
He muttered something.
"Your book is out, isn't it? 'Reuben Hallard' is the name. I must get
father to put it down on his list. One's first books must be so dreadfully
exciting--and so alarming ... the reviews and everything--what is it
about?"
He murmured "Cornwall."
"Cornwall? How delightful! I was only there once. Mullion. Do you know
Mullion?" She struggled along. The pain that had begun in his heart was now
at his throat--his throat was full of spiders' webs. He could scarcely see
her in the dark but her pale blue dress and her dark eyes and her beautiful
white hands--her little figure danced against the dark, shining floor like
a fairy's.
He heard her sigh of relief at Alice Galleon's return.
"Oh! thank you, dear, so much. Good-bye, Mr. Westcott--I shall read the
book."
She was gone.
"Lights! Lights!" cried Alice Galleon. "How provoking of her not to come to
tea properly. Well, Peter? How was it all?"
He was guilty of abominable rudeness.
He burst from the room without a word and banged, desperately, the door
behind him.
CHAPTER II
A CHAPTER ABOUT SUCCESS I HOW TO WIN IT, HOW TO KEEP IT--WITH A NOTE AT THE
END FROM HENRY GALLEON
I
The shout of applause with which "Reuben Hallard" was greeted still remains
one of the interesting cases in modern literary history.
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