But
to-day's given point had been the end of his book, and for some happy
minutes Langholm fed on his elation. It was done at last, yet another
novel, and not such a bad one after all. Not his best by any means, but
perhaps still further from being his worst; and, at all events, the
thing was done. Langholm could scarcely grasp that fact, though there
was the last page just dry upon the bureau, and most of the rest lying
about the room in galley-proofs or in typewritten sheets. Moreover, the
publishers were pleased; that was the joke. It was nothing less to
Langholm when he reflected that the final stimulus to finish this book
had been the prospect and determination of at last writing one to please
himself. And this reflection brought him down from his rosy clouds.
It was the day of the Uniacke's garden-party; they had actually asked
the poor author, and the poor author had intended to go. Not that he
either shone or revelled in society; but Mrs. Steel would be there, and
he burned to tell her that he had finished his book, and was at last
free to tackle hers; for hers at bottom it would be, the great novel by
which the name of Langholm was to live, and which he was to found by
Rachel Steel's advice upon the case of her namesake Rachel Minchin.
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