"Do you like the life, in there?" he asked, jerking his head in the
direction of the Museum. "Dreadful grind, isn't it? But, somehow, it
gets hold of you; there's a kind of fascination in literature." He spoke
the magic word with the air of quite an old, old man of letters. "I
ought to have been a grocer. My father's got a shop in Middleswick; he
calls it The Emporium. I think that's why I couldn't stick it. Pity,
isn't it? for it's a rattling good business. Another thing; I couldn't
stand the apron. Guv'nor insisted on the apron; 'begin from the
beginning' sort of thing, you know. And then I felt the call of
literature. Fond of reading, and all that. You know?"
Celia nodded. That tender heart of hers was quite ready with its
comprehension and sympathy.
"I hope you will succeed; but if you don't--Ah, well; you can go back,"
she said, half-enviously.
"No; one doesn't go back," he said, with a gravity that sat curiously on
his boyish face. "Once you've got the fever, you've got it for life.
Tiger tasting blood, you know. I'd rather be a literary man than--than
the German Emperor. Of course, I'm hoping to do better things; but even
the stuff I do makes me--oh, well, kind of happy. Every time I get a
proof something runs through me, something grateful and comforting--like
the cocoa. I mean to get on to fiction presently." He blushed like a
girl, and looked at her timidly, with the appealing look of a dog in his
eyes. "I've tried my hand already at a short story or two." He paused.
"I say"--hesitatingly, his eyes still more dog-like--"you are so awfully
kind, I wonder whether you'd mind looking at one of my things. Oh, of
course, it's too much to ask! You're busy--you work hard, I know; I've
watched you."
"Why, I shall be very pleased to read something you have written," said
Celia, smiling encouragement.
"You will! Oh, that's stunning of you! I'll send you a short story
to-night, if you'll give me your address. But perhaps you'd rather not,"
he added, quickly.
"Why not?" said Celia. She gave it to him.
"I'll send it," he whispered; but as he spoke, his hand went towards his
breast-pocket.
Celia tried not to smile; for she saw what was coming.
"To tell you the truth," he said, with a burst of candour, "I've got one
with me. I'll give it to you now. But for Heaven's sake don't look at it
here! I should see by your face what you thought of it, and you're
likely to think precious little of it; you'll think it tommy-rot;
though, of course, you won't say so. Look here!" he went on, as he drew
out the precious manuscript slowly, "don't tell me that it 'shows
promise'; I can bear anything but that. That's fatal; it's what all the
beastly editors say when they don't mean to have anything to do with
you."