Next morning came a brief note from the Philosopher,--he prided himself on never writing a word more than was absolutely necessary.
“Coming back to-morrow afternoon. Bringing a friend to tea.”
This, scrawled on what is called a “correspondence card” and signed with the almost illegible hieroglyph which he made of his initials, was all.
Dr. Maynard turned it over and over--then glanced at his daughter.
“This means that he will be here to-day,” he said. “Probably about four or five o’clock. I think the friend he alludes to is an Oxford publisher.”
“Yes,--quite an enterprising man who is likely to take my ‘The Deterioration of Language,’ and launch it well. Of course we shall have to talk it over.”
“Of course!” and the Sentimentalist did her best to seem interested. “You will have to settle terms, and all that sort of thing.”
“Terms?” The old scholar shook his head. “My dear child, I don’t build any hopes in _that_ direction! If I can find a publisher to take the book at all I shall be fortunate--”
“But it’s such a _wonderful_ work!” she said, with all the tender indulgence she truly felt. “You’ve had so much patience and spent so much time over it!”
“Very true!” and Maynard smiled. “But publishers don’t care about that. They think of trade. ‘Will it sell?’ is their one demand. If it won’t, what’s the good of it? Think of Milton gratefully accepting Five Pounds for ‘Paradise Lost’! There’s a life’s lesson!” He looked at the Philosopher’s note again and a little smile hovered round his lips. “Yes! I should say Craig has found a likely man and is bringing him along.”
“Well, I’ll have a nice tea ready for them when they come,” said Sylvia. “That will help to put them in a good humour.”
She went off then on her various household duties, and presently bethought herself that though it was chill November there was one warm corner in the garden where a few monthly roses still found courage to bloom. One or two of these would brighten the tea-table, she decided, and putting on her hat and cloak she ran out in search of them. They were all in a little pink group together--drooping rather on their stems, yet not without soft fragrance, and she was almost reluctant to gather them. She remembered how Jack Durham had called her a “rose-lady,” and quick tears sprang to her eyes as the pretty name chimed in her memory like a fairy bell. Slowly and very tenderly she plucked three or four of what were indeed the “last roses of summer”--and as she did so was startled by a gruff voice speaking on the other side of the hedge.