He laughed to himself to think that there had once been a day when he had thought that the thing would make his fortune! 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, blasé, 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. Galleon, one for Stephen, one for Miss Monogue, one for Mrs. Brockett and one for Mr. Zanti. “Reuben Hallard and His Adventures,” by Peter Westcott. They would be getting it now at the newspaper offices. _The Mascot_ would have a copy and the fat little chocolate consumer. It would stand with a heap of others, and be ticked off with a heap of others, for some youth to exercise his wit upon. As to any one buying the book? Who ever saw any one buying a six-shilling novel? It was only within the last year or so that the old three volumes with their thirty-one-and-six had departed this life. The publishers had assured Peter that this new six-shilling form was the thing. “Please have you got 'Reuben Hallard' by Peter Westcott?... Thank you, I'll take it with me.”
There poor Reuben would lie--deserted, still-born, ever dustier and dustier whilst other stories came pouring, pouring from endless presses, covering, crowding it down, stamping upon it, burying it.... “Here lies 'Reuben Hallard.'...”
On Thursday, however, there was the tea-party--a Thursday never to be forgotten whilst Peter was alive. Bobby had told him the day before that his father might be coming. “The rest of the family will turn up for certain. They want to see you. They're always all agog for any new thing--one of them's always playing Cabot to somebody else's Columbus. But father's uncertain. He gets something into his head and then nothing whatever will draw him out--but I expect he'll turn up.”
The other visitor was announced to Peter on the very day.
“By the way, Peter, somebody's coming to tea this afternoon who's met you before--met you at that odd boarding-house of yours--a Miss Rossiter. Clare's an old friend of ours. I told you down at the sea about her and you said you remembered meeting her.”