publisher make haste and bring it out? I believe he is keeping it back on purpose. What dreadful creatures they are! At first—squabble, squabble, squabble; squabble about terms, squabble about this, another squabble about that, and then, when everything is finally arranged, delay, delay, delay. "You must wait for the publishing season." As though a book were a young lady whose future might be seriously jeopardised if it made its début at an unfashionable time.
[The door opens, and Harold bursts into the room.]
Harold.It's out, it's out; out at last.
Lucy.What, the book! Really! Where is it? Do show it to me.
Harold.Do you think you deserve it!
Lucy.Oh! don't tantalise me. Have you seen it? What is it like!
Harold.It is printed, and very much like other books.
Lucy.You are horrid. I believe you have it with you. Have you?
Harold.And what if I say yes?
Lucy.You have. Do let me see it.
Harold.And will you be very good if I do!
Lucy.I'll be angelic.
Harold.Then on that condition only—There! take it gently.[Lucy snatches it, and cuts the string.]I thought you never cut string?
Lucy.There is never a never that hasn't an exception.
Harold.Not a woman's, certainly.
Lucy.Oh! how nice it looks! And to think that it is yours, really and truly yours. "Grace: a Sketch. By Harold Sekbourne." It's delicious![Holding the book, dances round the room.]
