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Updated: May 9, 2025
And yet he turned the pages over tenderly there might be something to be said for it, Miss Monogue had thought well of it. These publishers, blase, cynical fellows, surely believed in it. It was fat and red and comfortable. It had a worldly, prosperous look. "Reuben Hallard and His Adventures" ... Good Lord! What cheek. There were five copies to give away. One between Bobby and Mrs.
"Can't write 'Reuben Hallard, old boy...." and so, with a laugh, they parted. In the cab, afterwards, Clare's head was buried in Peter's coat, and she sobbed her heart out. "How I could have been such a beast, Peter, Peter!" "Darling, it was nothing." "Oh, but it was! It shall never, never happen again...but I was frightened " "Frightened!" "Yes, I always think some one's going to take you away.
Her innocence, her gentleness, her apparent willingness to be led by any one stronger than herself. Mr. Arthur dwelt long on that. That was a distinctly promising characteristic. He would consider that essential in any woman whom he thought to make his wife. Then she was demonstrative. He had often seen her show signs of deep affection to Miss Hallard.
Peter heard Percival say to some one. Young fools, he thought to himself, let them have my trouble and then they may talk. But they were nice to him when he came up to them. The author of "Reuben Hallard," even though he did look like a sailor on leave, was worth respecting moreover, father liked him and believed in him nevertheless he was just a tiny bit "last year's sensation."
He had drawn her attention to the beauty of the broad stretch of stream as it bent away towards Chiswick out of sight. He felt that he had made an impression of mentality upon the little typewriting girl. And, after that, he had suggested to Mrs. Hewson that it might seem churlish on his part not to have his meals with the rest. Janet Hallard he did not like.
Oh! what an age she, Alice Galleon, seemed to muster at the sight of their innocent trust! Did every woman feel as old, as protecting, as tenderly indulgent, towards every man?... "Why, of course," she answered quietly, "Peter it shall be " Bobby raised his port. "Here's to Peter to Peter and 'Reuben Hallard' overwhelming success to both of them." Emotion, for an instant, held them.
Cards got up and in one of the wittiest little speeches you ever heard in your life, proposed Peter's health, alluded to 'Reuben Hallard, then Clare, then the Son and Heir, a kind of back fling at old Dawson's, and then last of all, an apostrophe to 'The Stone House' all glory and honour, &c.: well, it was most neatly done and we all sat back, silent, for Peter's reply.
She felt his embarrassment and struggled. "I hear that you've been very ill, Mr. Westcott. I'm so dreadfully sorry and I do hope that you're better?" He muttered something. "Your book is out, isn't it? 'Reuben Hallard' is the name. I must get father to put it down on his list. One's first books must be so dreadfully exciting and so alarming ... the reviews and everything what is it about?"
He spoke to him in his slow tremendous voice and the words seemed to go on after they had left him, rolling along the Embankment. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Westcott. I have thought that I would like to have a chat with you. I have just finished your book." This was indeed tremendous that Henry Galleon should have read "Reuben Hallard." Peter trembled all over.
He should have been making connections, having irons in the fire, bustling about how could he have sat down thus happily and easily for seven years, as though such a condition of things could continue for ever? He had had wild ideas of "Reuben Hallard" making his fortune!... that showed his ignorance of the world. Let him begin to bustle. He would not lose another moment.
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