He was eager to forward it to the publishers without delay, but Turquand had so recently referred to his expectation of reading it in the manuscript that he sent it to Soho first. "Let me have it back quickly," he begged; and the journalist's answer in returning the parcel reached him on the next evening but one. He showed it to Cynthia with delight; Turquand wrote very warmly. The manuscript was submitted to Messrs. Cousins with a note, requesting them to give it their early consideration; and now Kent was asked constantly by the Walfords if they had written yet, and what terms he had obtained. Cynthia had not regained strength enough to care to travel at present, and her parents and brother generally spent the evening at No. 64, where, truth to tell, Kent found their interest rather a nuisance. His father-in-law evidently held that it was derogatory for him to be kept waiting a fortnight for his publishers' offer, and Mrs. Walford made so many foolish inquiries and ridiculous suggestions that he was sometimes in danger of being rude. Cæsar alone displayed no curiosity in a matter so frivolous, but listened with his superior air, which tried Kent's patience even more. The fat young man's debut had been postponed again. Now he was to appear for certain in the spring, and he explained, in a tone implying that he could, if he might, impart esoteric facts, that the delay had been discreet. "No outsider can have any idea," he said languidly, "what wheels within wheels there are in our world." He meant the operatic world, into which he had still to squeeze a foot. "This last season it would have been madness for a new bass to sing in London; he was doomed before he opened his mouth--doomed!" He looked at the ceiling with a meditative smile, as if dwelling upon curiously amusing circumstances. "_Very_ funny!" he added.