Mr Galbraith didn't say good-night. Henry thought he was about to, and stood up, expectantly; but the little man suddenly dropped his eyes; looked hurriedly about; muttered--'Where'd I lay that fountain pen?'--found it; and rushed off down the hall, trailing the clippings behind him.
Out in the hall, Mr Merchant pulled the door to.
'Calverly,' he said, 'I congratulate you. And I shall congratulate Galbraith.'
'I know how you feel,' said the older man kindly. 'It is pleasant to succeed.'
'I felt a little bad about--you know, what you said about making him write that letter. He might think I----'
'Don't you worry about that. I'll have the letter for you in the morning. I'm going to pin him right to it. He'll never get out of this.'
'You--you don't mean that he'd--he'd----'
'Galbraith's a genius. He gets excited. Over-cerebrates at times. Sometimes he offers young fellows more than he can deliver. Then he wakes up to it and takes a sudden trip to Europe.'
'He acts very strange,' said Henry critically. 'I wonder if all geniuses are that way.'
'They're apt to be queer. But never forget that he's a real one. No matter how mad he may seem to you, no matter how irresponsible, Galbraith is a great editor. He is wild about you. When he said he'd make you, I believe he meant it. And I believe he'll do it. You're on the high road now, Calverly. Through a lucky accident. But that's how most men hit the high road. They happen to be where it is. They stumble on it. Within a year you'll be known everywhere.... Well, good-night!'
The immediate effect of this experience on Henry was acute depression. Perhaps because his excitement had passed its bearable summit. Though great good fortune always did depress him, even in his later life. It had the effect of suddenly delimiting the boundaries of his widely elastic imagination. It brought him sharply down to the actual.
He hadn't enjoyed the bargaining for him. And the actual Galbraith was a shock from which he didn't recover for years, an utter destruction of cherished illusions.
He walked down to Lake Shore Drive, struggling with these thoughts and with himself. The problem was to get himself able to think at all, about anything. His nerves were bow-strings, his mind a race-track. He was frightened for himself. Over and over he told himself that this amazing adventure was not a dream; that he had seen Galbraith, _the_ Galbraith; that he had sold his stories, the work of a few weeks--he recalled how he had written the first ten during three mad days and nights; they had come tumbling out of his brain faster than he could write them down, as if an exuberant angel were dictating to him--had sold them for thousands of dollars; that an income, of a sort, was assured for three years. The stories, even now, seemed an accident. They were a thing that had happened to him. Such a thing might or might not happen again. Though he knew it would. But between times he wasn't a genius; he wasn't anything; just Henry Calverly, of Sunbury.... He pushed back his hat; rubbed his blazing forehead; pressed his thumping temples.