Page:Lippincotts Monthly Magazine-70.djvu/457

the green curtain down before his dusty window. He turned away from financial problems and the curious windows of Bedford Street and went to France. One afternoon he presented himself at 47 Rue de l'Universite. The concierge stared brutally at the giant Anglo-Saxon.

"Mademoiselle Brookfield?"

"Mesdames Brookfield," corrected the woman significantly, "ces dames sont parties."

Mr. Coverton would wait.

"Mais non! definítely parties!" The woman would none of him. "Parties!" and she made a gesture so eliminating, so dispersing, that it might well have wiped the Brookfields from the earth's surface. She was cajoled by a louis to reveal the banker's address, and with this cold substitute for his ardent anticipations Coverton was forced to depart. At Rue ——— Scribe results were more stupefying because final: the Brookfields had left for England the day before—the very day of Coverton's arrival! He obtained a London address,—a bank again,—none other was to be had.

After three days' absence from London, at Murges & Company's he was convincingly informed that the fate of "The Primrose Way" had been definitely taken in hand by an irate public! "That Beast—the Public" (as a young writer has amiably styled the devouring creature), turned indignantly and pitilessly rent several worthless objects of diet, refusing to swallow further instalments of the like. Amongst rejected objects, whose real qualities had been too long deverly disguised, was "The Primrose Way." Its editions now stocked the shelves of Murges & Company.

Coverton listened to the information that closed with: "It's a drug on the market, sir. Give us authority to break up the plates!"

"Miss Brookfield, I understand, has gone to the Isle of Wight." (This he told his waiting minions over the top of the letter he had been perusing when disturbed to cast vote for the future of "The Primrose Way.") "I will communicate with her. You shall have my answer in a few days."

On Coverton's desk lay a manuscript addressed to him in a hand beloved and dear. It was a new novel, by Alicia Brookfield. Two hours must elapse before he could take the train to join his yacht en route for the Isle of Wight. Meantime he could not better pass his time than thus to read what these months had suggested to Miss Brookfield's mind and pen. . . .

It was late in the afternoon when he put aside the last sheet of the manuscript: he looked at his watch and rose. But Chance demanded no further flight of her shuttlecock! A card was brought the director. Miss Brookfield—would Mr. Coverton see her?