There came a climax when she tried to jump out of a window, and he
had to save her by some perfunctary, unmeant wooing. Even I was
shaken by the depths of the absorbing affection she showed. Home,
friends, traditions, creeds went up like thistle-down in the scale
against her love. It was really discomposing.
One night again Pettit sauntered in, yawning. As he had told me
before, he said he felt that he could do a great story, and as before
I hunted him to his room and saw him open his inkstand. At one
o'clock the sheets of paper slid under my door.
I read that story, and I jumped up, late as it was, with a whoop of
joy. Old Pettit had done it. Just as though it lay there, red and
bleeding, a woman's heart was written into the lines. You couldn't
see the joining, but art, exquisite art, and pulsing nature had been
combined into a love story that took you by the throat like the
quinsy. I broke into Pettit's room and beat him on the back and
called him names--names high up in the galaxy of the immortals that
we admired. And Pettit yawned and begged to be allowed to sleep.
On the morrow, I dragged him to an editor. The great man read, and,
rising, gave Pettit his hand. That was a decoration, a wreath of bay,
and a guarantee of rent.
And then old Pettit smiled slowly. I call him Gentleman Pettit now
to myself. It's a miserable name to give a man, but it sounds better
than it looks in print.
"I see," said old Pettit, as he took up his story and began tearing
it into small strips.
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