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"It was not at all a simple thing to me. I am no good at anything except fiction."
Edith gave her foot an impatient stamp.
"Don't talk rubbish," she said; "you know perfectly well that your style must come to your aid in whatever you try to write. Then your fiction is not so remarkable for plot as for the careful development of character and your pithy remarks. Your powers of epigram would be abundantly brought to the fore in such a subject as Tom asked you to write about. But never mind, my dear, it is your pleasure to duplicate yourself I do not think it is at all a worldly-wise habit; but, of course, that is your affair. Now come into the dining-saloon at once. I have good news for you. Tom has obtained tickets for us all three to see Irving in his great piece 'The Bells.'"
Florence certainly was cheered up by this news. She wanted to forget herself, to forget the miserable article which she vainly and without real knowledge of the ordinary duties of an editor hoped that Tom Franks would not even read. She ate her dinner with appetite, and went upstairs to her room in high good humour. Her means were sufficiently good to enable her to dress prettily, and she, Edith, and Tom found themselves just before the curtain rose in comfortable stalls at the theatre. Franks was in an excellent humour and in high spirits. He chatted merrily to both girls, and Florence had never looked better. Franks gave her a glance of downright admiration from time to time. Suddenly he bent forward and whispered to her: "What about my article?"
"I posted it to you some hours ago," she answered.
"Ah! that is good." A smile of contentment played round his lips. "I look forward most eagerly to reading it in the morning," he said: "it will be at my office by the first post, of course."
"I suppose
so," said Florence, in a listless voice. Her gaiety and good humour suddenly deserted her.
The play proceeded; Edith was all critical attention, Franks also warmly approved, and Florence forgot herself in her absorbing interest. But between the acts the thought of her miserable schoolgirl essay came back to haunt her. Just before the curtain rose for the final act she touched Franks on his sleeve.
"What is it?" he said, looking at her.
"I wish you would make me a promise."
"What is that?"
"Don't read the stuff I have sent you; it is not good. If you don't like it, send it back to me."
"I cannot do that, for I have advertised your name. You simply must put something into the first number, but of course it will be good: you could not write anything poor."
"Oh, you don't know. Mine is a queer brain: sometimes it won't act at all. I was not pleased with the article. Perhaps the public would overlook it, if you would only promise not to read it."
"My dear Miss Aylmer, I would do a great deal for you, but now you ask for the impossible. I must read what you have written. I have no doubt I shall be charmed with it."
Florence sat back in her seat; she could do nothing further.
The next day, when he arrived at his office, Tom Franks eagerly pounced upon Florence's foolscap envelope. He tore it open and began to read the silly stuff she had written. He had not gone half-way down the first page before the whole expression of his face altered. Bewilderment, astonishment, almost disgust, spread themselves over his features. He turned page after page, looked back at the beginning, glanced at the end, then set himself deliberately to digest Florence's poor attempt from the first word to the last. He flung the paper from him with a gesture of despair. Had she done it to trick him? Positively the production was scarcely respectable. A third-form schoolgirl would have done better. There were even one or two mistakes in spelling, the grammar was slipshod, the different utterances what few schoolgirls would have attempted to make: so banal, so threadbare, so used-up were they. Where was that terse and vigorous style? Where were those epigrammatic utterances? Where was the pure Saxon which had delighted his scholarly mind in the stories which she had written?
He rang his office bell sharply. A clerk appeared.
"Bring me the last number of the Argonaut ," he said.
It was brought immediately, and Franks opened it at Florence's last story. He read a sentence or two, compared the style of the story with the style of the article, and finally shut up the Argonaut and went into his chief's room.
"I have a disappointment for you, Mr. Anderson," he said.
"What is that, Franks?" asked the chief, raising his head from a pile of papers over which he was bending.
"Why, our rara avis , our new star of the literary firmament, has come to a complete collapse. Something has snuffed her out; she has written rubbish."
"What? you surely do not allude to Miss Aylmer?"
"I do. I asked her to do a paper for the General Review , thinking that her name would be a great catch in the first number. She consented, I must say with some unwillingness, and sent me this . Look it over and tell me what you think."