“Now this,” Mr. Hayden said, unfolding her manuscript. “We can use this, simply as a story, if you want to sell it to us. With the right illustrations and a few changes it will make a very good feature. Our rates, of course—” Helen had made no sound, but some quality in her breathless silence interrupted him. He looked at her questioningly.
“You don’t mean—I can write?”
He was amused.
“People do, you know. In fact, most people do—or try. You’d realize that if you were a magazine editor. Have you never written before?”
“Well—reader advertisements and letters, of course. I haven’t thought of really writing, not since I was a school girl.” She was dazzled.
“Advertisement! That accounts for it. You cramp your style here and there. But you can write. You have an original viewpoint; you write with a sense of direction, and you pack in human interest—human interest’s always good. And you know the values of words.”
“When you’re paying three dollars and eighty cents an inch for space you do think about them!” she laughed. His words revealed the unmeasured stretches of her ignorance in this new field, but the blood throbbed in her temples. Her mind became a whirl of ideas; she saw the world as a gold mine, crammed with things to write about. Eagerly attentive, she listened to Mr. Hayden’s criticisms of the manuscript.
Her lead was too long. “You spar around before you get to the point. The story really begins here.” His pencil hovered over the page. “If you don’t object to our making changes?”
“Oh, please do! I want to learn.”
An hour went by, and another. Mr. Hayden was interested in her opinions on all subjects; he led her to talk of land selling, of advertising, of the many parts of California that she knew. He suggested a series of articles similar to the one he held in his hand. He would be glad to consider them if she would write them. If she had other ideas, would she submit them?
She left the office with a check in her purse, and her mind was filled with rainbow visions. She saw a story in every newsboy she met, ideas clothed with romance and color jostled each other for place in her mind, and the world seemed a whirling ball beneath her feet. For the first time since the interview with MacAdams she longed to rush to Paul, to share with him her glittering visions.
XXI
Paul was aggrieved. He stood in the dismantled living-room of the little bungalow, struggling between forbearance and a sense of the justice of his grievance. “But look here!” he said for the hundredth time, “why couldn’t you let a fellow know? If I’d had a chance to show you how unreasonable, how unnecessary—” He thrust his hands deep into his coat-pockets and walked moodily up and down between the big trunk and the two bulging suitcases that stood on the bare floor.
Helen, drooping wearily on one of the suitcases, contritely searched her mind for a reply. It was bewildering not to find one. On all other points of the discussion her reasons were clear and to her convincing. But surely she should have informed him of her plans. He had never for a moment been forgotten; the knowledge of him continually glowed in her heart, warming her even when her thoughts were furthest from him.
She could not understand the disassociation of ideas that had caused this apparent neglect of him. There was no defense against her self-accusation.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she murmured inadequately. He had already passed over the point, beginning again the circling argument that had occupied them since his unexpected arrival.
“Can’t you see, dear, there’s no reason under the sun for a move like this? You’ll no more than get settled in the city before—” His moodiness vanished. “Oh, come on, sweetheart! Chuck the whole thing. Come on down to Ripley. It’s only for a little while. Why should you care so much about a little money? You’ll have to get used to my paying the bills some time, you know; it might as well be now. No? Yes!” His arm was around her shoulders, and she smiled up into his coaxing, humorous eyes.
“You’re a dear! No, but seriously, Paul, not yet. It’s all arranged—the Pacific Coast is counting on me, and I’ve got the new series started in the Post. Just think of all the working girls you’d rob of oodles of good advice that they won’t follow! Please don’t feel so badly, dear.” Her voice deepened. “I’ll tell you the real reason I want to go. If I can get really started, if I can get my name pretty well known—A name in this writing game, you know, is just like a trademark. It’s established by advertising. Well, if I can do that, I can keep on writing wherever I am, even in Ripley. And then I’ll have something to do and a little income. I—I would like that. Don’t you see how beautiful it would be?”
“It may be your idea of beautifulness, but I can’t say I’m crazy about it,” he replied. He sat on the suitcase, his hands clasped between his knees, and stared glumly at his boots. “Why do you want an income? I can take care of you.”
“Of course!” she assured him, hastily. “I didn’t mean—”
“And when it
