He had certainly
never thought himself an exceptional person ... but always in his heart
there had been that belief that, one day, he would write an exceptional
book.
He was very young, not yet thirty, but he had had his chance. It seemed to
him, in these weeks following the death of "Mortimer Stant," that his
career was already over. There was also the question of ways and means.
Just enough to live on with the reviewing and a column for an American
paper and Clare's income, but if the books were all of them to fail as this
one had failed--why then it was a dreary future for them both.
In fact there were now, at his feet, pits of so dismal and impenetrable a
blackness that he refused to look down, but clung rather to his
determination to make all things right with Clare again, and then things
would come round.
If that failed him--why then, old black-faced father in Scaw House with
your drunken cook and your company of ghosts, you shall have your merry
way!
II
Henry Galleon was dead. Mrs. Launce was, unfortunately, during the whole of
this period of Peter's career, away in the country, being burdened with
work, children and ill-health. He turned then once again to Bobby.
He had seen very little of Bobby and Alice Galleon lately; he was as fond
of Bobby as he had ever been, but Bobby had always been a background, some
one who was there, one liked to think, if one wanted him--but if there was
any one more exciting, then Bobby vanished.
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