The Argosy — page 45: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

| me. 32 My Saturdays. these amateurs think that if they cannot sell hot potatoes at Mid- summer, it is a sign that nobody wants them at Christmas, Lingard might have been in print weeks ago, if his stuff is worth anything.” ‘Are you going to talk to him ?” ‘“Of course I can’t interfere further than I am asked to do. I have explained all this to Mrs. Lingard, and told her that if her husband cares to talk the matter over with me, I shall be very happy | to put my experience at his command.” Archibald smoked and dozed in the punt all Sunday afternoon, evidently expecting the Lingards; but they did not appear. When the bells were ringing for evening service, however, Rhoda came in on her way to church, dressed with Sunday precision in black silk, with a neat little neutral-coloured bonnet. Romance, brightness and beauty were gone out of her fashionable dress and composed pale face ; her eyes were a little pink, and she spoke as if she had con- sidered what she was going to say. ‘““T only came in as I was going to church, to tell you, Mr. Rin- toul, that I am afraid I was too impulsive in presuming on your kindness yesterday. I often speak hastily, without thinking enough first. My husband does not consider that there would be any use in doing anything about his book, and it would not be fair to give you so much trouble for nothing. I ought to have remembered how valuable your time was.” ‘“T assure you,” answered Archibald earnestly, ‘‘that it would not be giving me any trouble at all. It would be a pleasure to ) ‘You are very good,” Rhoda answered, ‘‘ but Professor Lingard has quite made up his mind to let the matter alone. I feel your kindness very much, and I did nope that something might have been done, but I see it is impossible.” She spoke almost tearfully. Archibald grew more eager as the obstacles towered higher. “But why, Mrs. Lingard? Can nothing be done to persuade him ? There is a real opening for the book now.” “Oh yes, I told him all that you said; but it is of nouse. He has been so often disappointed that he cannot bear to be disappointed any more. And I cannot urge him again—it worries him too much. I lose courage myself when I remember what we went through before, when the book was going round from publisher to publisher, and think of having that all over again. We have failed, and we must accept failure. We only hurt ourselves by fresh efforts.” She had drawn back her tears, and spoke with steady calm. Archi- bald became unusually excited. “ Accept failure!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ That is talking sheer nonsense. Thackeray failed, Disraeli failed, Defoe failed, Milton failed. Did any of them accept failure? Should we have half-a-dozen great COPMICLIOO KS. EO