" I meant
to speak bravely, but I knew more than this. I knew that, with all my
air-castles shattered, with the knowledge that to him literature was a
pastime, while to me it meant livelihood, I gloried more in his success
than I should in my own, that I was glad that he, and not I, was to have
fame; and in the tumult of new emotions against which I struggled, my
lip quivered, I turned aside my head, and felt, but I did not see, the
hand that touched mine, thrilling me so that I drew away.
"Miss Marriott--Kate--"
"No, no," I cried, facing him with my cheeks crimson, and speaking
rapidly, "I want you to let me send a few pages for a reading to Mr.
----, the editor of ----'s Magazine; he is a friend of mine; he has been
so good to me. You say you have no publisher in view. I am certain he
will take this when it is finished, and you know what that means; it
will make your reputation, and--"
"Ah, but you see, these are only fragments," he said, sadly, regaining
his composure. "Suppose I am never able to weave them properly into the
plot? You cannot know how discouraged I am sometimes."
"Will you not let me send them?" I asked eagerly. "It is quite true that
they are only fragments, but no one could write such things and then
fail of success in elaborating; it is impossible. Come, let us go, it is
nearly dinner-time," I went on, not giving him time to speak, as I began
gathering up the books and rugs.
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