In moments of irritation Philippa evinced a growing tendency to drop into the colloquial, but the obvious justice of her remark appealed to Robert. “You’re quite right,” he said, penitently. “I’m unbearable.” He leaned over the back of her chair, and drawing her head to him kissed her on the forehead. Philippa pulled herself together mentally and smiled. “Give me the letters to write first,” she said, “and then you can dictate.” Robert went back to his desk and the morning’s work began. For some time the click of the typewriter went on without interruption. Then Philippa turned. “What am I to say about this letter of Mr. Nevern’s?” she asked in a casual tone. Robert frowned at the name. “What’s it about? I forget.” “He encloses a poem, and asks your opinion upon it.” “He’d be sorry if I gave it,” returned Robert, with a laugh. Philippa waited in silence. “Is that what I’m to say?” she inquired at last in a voice that expressed nothing. “Don’t be silly. Just write the usual note, of course. I’m much struck by the grace and charm of his verses, and so forth. And don’t mention the _Literary Review_, which is, of course, what he wants mentioned. That’s the worst of having influence. One’s badgered incessantly by a lot of incompetent fools.” Philippa’s machine was at once set in motion. In a few minutes she had written two notes. Two or three minutes later the postman’s knock was heard, and Robert went out into the hall to get the letters. He returned with two or three, and stood opening them by the chimney-piece. Presently he gave a short, angry laugh. “What’s that?” asked Philippa, without turning. “Oh, nothing. Only a letter from Barker. He’s returning that last story.” He crumpled up the envelope and threw it savagely into the fire. “_The Survivor_?” asked Philippa, without much enthusiasm. “Yes.” Robert was still glancing through the letter with worried, angry eyes; presently he began to read snatches from it. “‘Too thin! ... interest not maintained ... scarcely up to the standard’--Rot!” He dashed the letter down onto his desk. “What _do_ they want?” “I’ve finished the letter,” remarked Philippa, after a silence. For a moment Robert regarded the back of her head without speaking. “You should try not to be so effusively sympathetic, Philippa,” he said at last, sarcastically. She turned her head and looked at him with a calmly provoking gaze. “My dear Robert, if I were effusive over every one of your returned manuscripts, I should be a wreck by this time. I thought you didn’t care for popular success?” “It isn’t that,” he ejaculated, too worried and depressed to heed her tone. “I’m doing bad work. It’s no use to pretend I’m not.” He threw himself moodily into a chair as he spoke. “Then how do you account for the returned manuscripts?” “Not the right sort of badness, I suppose,” he answered, with an attempt at a laugh.