No good, he said.
Audrey considered the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with an idea.
Shall I go in and cry?
It wouldnt be any use.
Tell me what happened.
He said I mustnt see you again.
He didnt mean it.
He thinks he did.
We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on the telephone. That isnt seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?
Thats all right, then. Ill ring you up every day.
I wish I could make some money, said Owen, thoughtfully. But I seem to be one of those chaps who cant. Nothing I try comes off. Ive never drawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds on sixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didnt win a thing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizing a novel. Nothing came of that, either.
A thing called White Roses, by a woman named Edith Butler.
Audrey looked up quickly.
I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?
I didnt know her at all. Id never met her. I just happened to buy the thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. I expect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble to send it back or even to acknowledge receipt.
Perhaps she never got it?
I registered it.
She was a cat, said Audrey, decidedly. Im glad of it, though. If another woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died of jealousy.
Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his parting with Mr. Sheppherd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashing schemes, regarding the world as his oyster, and burning to get at it, sword in hand. But routine, with its ledgers and its copying-ink and its customers, fell like a grey cloud athwart his horizon, blotting out rainbow visions of sudden wealth, dramatically won. Day by day the glow faded and hopelessness grew.
If the glow did not entirely fade it was due to Audrey, who more than fulfilled her promise of ringing him up on the telephone. She rang him up at least once, frequently several times, every day, a fact which
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