“Well, Sam, rather an awful thing happened about that …”
“I say, I hope you’re not going to say it’s not finished. The date on the contract, you know …”
“Oh, it’s finished all right. Burnt.”
“Burnt?”
“Burnt.”
“What an awful thing. I hope you are insured.”
Adam explained the circumstances of the destruction of his autobiography. There was a longish pause while Sam Benfleet thought.
“What worries me is how are we going to make that sound convincing to old Rampole.”
“I should think it sounded convincing enough.”
“You don’t know old Rampole. It’s sometimes very difficult for me, Adam, working under him. Now if I had my own way I’d say, ‘Take your own time. Start again. Don’t worry …’ But there’s old Rampole. He’s a devil for contracts, you know, and you did say, didn’t you … ? It’s all very difficult. You know, I wish it hadn’t happened.”
“So do I, oddly enough,” said Adam.
“There’s another difficulty. You’ve had an advance already, haven’t you? Fifty pounds, wasn’t it? Well, you know, that makes things very difficult. Old Rampole never likes big advances like that to young authors. You know I hate to say it, but I can’t help feeling that the best thing would be for you to repay the advance—plus interest, of course, old Rampole would insist on that—and cancel the contract. Then if you ever thought of rewriting the book, well, of course, we should be delighted to consider it. I suppose that—well, I mean, it would be quite convenient, and all that, to repay the advance?”
“Not only inconvenient, but impossible,” said Adam in no particular manner.
There was another pause.
“Deuced awkward,” said Sam Benfleet. “It’s a shame the way the Customs House officers are allowed to take the law into their own hands. Quite ignorant men, too. Liberty of the subject, I mean, and all that. I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll start a correspondence about it in the New Statesman. … It is all so deuced awkward. But I think I can see a way out. I suppose you could get the book rewritten in time for the Spring List? Well, we’ll cancel the contract and forget all about the advance. No, no, my dear fellow, don’t thank me. If only I was alone here I’d be doing that kind of thing all day. Now instead we’ll have a new contract. It won’t be quite so good as the last, I’m afraid. Old Rampole wouldn’t stand for that. I’ll tell you what, we’ll give you our standard first-novel contract. I’ve got a printed form here. It won’t take a minute to fill up. Just sign here.”
“May I just see the terms?”
“Of course, my dear fellow. They look a bit hard at first, I know, but it’s our usual form. We made a very special case for you, you know. It’s very simple. No royalty on the first two thousand, then a royalty of two and a half percent, rising to five percent, on the tenth thousand. We retain serial, cinema, dramatic, American, Colonial and translation rights, of course. And, of course, an option on your next twelve books on the same terms. It’s a very straightforward arrangement really. Doesn’t leave room for any of the disputes which embitter the relations of author and publisher. Most of our authors are working on a contract like that. … Splendid. Now don’t you bother any more about that advance. I understand perfectly, and I’ll square old Rampole somehow, even if it comes out of my director’s fees.”
“Square old Rampole,” repeated Mr. Benfleet thoughtfully as Adam went downstairs. It was fortunate, he reflected, that none of the authors ever came across the senior partner, that benign old gentleman, who once a week drove up to board meetings from the country, whose chief interest in the business was confined to the progress of a little book of his own about beekeeping, which they had published twenty years ago and, though he did not know it, allowed long ago to drop out of print. He often wondered in his uneasy moments what he would find to say when Rampole died.
It was about now that Adam remembered that he was engaged to be married. The name of his young lady was Nina Blount. So he went into a tube station to a telephone-box, which smelt rather nasty, and rang her up.
“Hullo.”
“Hullo.”
“May I speak to Miss Blount, please?”
“I’ll just see if she’s in,” said Miss Blount’s voice. “Who’s speaking, please?” She was always rather snobbish about the fiction of having someone to answer the telephone.
“Mr. Fenwick-Symes.”
“Oh.”
“Adam, you know. … How are you, Nina?”
“Well, I’ve got rather a pain just at present.”
“Poor Nina, shall I come round and see you?”
“No, don’t do that, darling, because I’m just going to have a bath. Why don’t we dine together?”
“Well, I asked Agatha Runcible to dinner.”
“Why?”
“She’d just had all her clothes taken off by some sailors.”
“Yes, I know, it’s all in the evening paper tonight. … Well, I’ll tell you what. Let’s meet at Archie Schwert’s party. Are you going?”
“I rather said I would.”
“That’s all right, then. Don’t dress up. No one will, except Archie.”
“Oh, I say. Nina, there’s one thing—I don’t think I shall be able to marry you after all.”
“Oh, Adam, you are a bore. Why not?”
“They burnt my book.”
“Beasts. Who did?”
“I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
“Yes, do. Goodbye, darling.”
“Goodbye, my sweet.”
He hung up the receiver and left the telephone-box. People had crowded into the Underground station for shelter from the rain, and were shaking their umbrellas and reading their evening papers. Adam could see the headlines over their shoulders.
Peer’s Daughter’s Dover Ordeal
Serious Allegations by Society Beauty
Hon. A. Runcible Says
“Too Shaming”
“Poor pretty,” said an indignant old woman at his elbow. “Disgraceful, I calls it. And such a good
