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Updated: June 23, 2025
Drexley was silent for several moments. For the first time in his life he glanced across at the photograph which stood upon his table with something like impatience. "I am afraid that I cannot offer you much encouragement," he said. "If ever a market in the world was overcrowded, the literary market of to-day is in that state.
Drexley shook his head. "I am afraid that is quite out of the question," he said. "You see our arrangements are all made a very long time ahead, and we have short stories enough on hand now to last us nearly two years. Of course if you care to leave yours with us, I think I can promise you that it shall appear some time, but exactly when, I should not care to say.
Some one had told him that Drexley was there, had been drinking brandy all day and was already verging on madness, and he had gone at once into the little bar, hoping to be able to quieten him.
"You have the misfortune, sir," Douglas said, "to be the editor of a popular magazine, and you are consequently never safe from the literary aspirant. I am one, Miss Strong is another." "Oh, Mr. Drexley," she exclaimed, in some confusion, "please don't listen to him. I have never tried to do anything except children's fairy stories, and I'm sure they're not half good enough for the Ibex.
Even then I scarcely dare open a morning paper." Douglas looked at him suddenly, moved by the man's wonderful faithfulness. Of his own sufferings he seemed oblivious. "What are you going to do to-night, Drexley?" he asked. Drexley shrugged his shoulders. "Sit about here," he answered. "Smoke and drink, I suppose, till eleven, and then go home. Not that I'm complaining.
But afterwards Drexley, even at this moment I do not know whether I have not been the most consummate fool on God's earth." "Go on. Speak plainly." "I spoke of marriage she evaded it. There was an obstacle. I begged for her whole confidence. She withheld it.
Rice returned to his room and smoked a whole cigarette before he touched his work. Drexley had found his way to her side at last. As usual her rooms were full, and to-night of people amongst whom he felt himself to some extent an alien. For Drexley was not of the fashionable world not even of the fashionable literary world. At heart he was a Bohemian of the old type.
Afterwards, when the girls rose to leave, Douglas was conscious for the first time of a look of reproach in Cicely's dark eyes. He pretended to ignore it he felt that any sort of response just then was impossible. The girls refused any escort home. They drove away in a hansom, and Drexley remained upon the pavement listening to the echo of their farewell speeches as to a very pleasant thing.
He ordered some coffee and made his way up into the writing-room. Drexley was there waiting, his head drooped upon his folded arms. He looked up as Douglas entered. Douglas halted in the middle of the room. He knew Drexley but slightly, and his appearance was forbidding. Drexley waved him to a chair and looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, but his tone was steady enough.
"It is David Strong. He is mad." "You know that it was he " "Yes." Drexley drew a long breath. "Look at him," he said, softly. "To-night he is safe quite harmless. Some one has been giving him money. He is quite drunk. Thank God!" Douglas stared at him surprised. "Drunk," Drexley explained, quietly, "he is safe. He will curl down in some odd corner somewhere soon and sleep till morning.
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