I saw these dear people rarely now. Frau
Nirlanger's resignation to her unhappiness only made me rebel more
keenly against my own.

If only Peter could become well and strong again, I told myself,
bitterly. If it were not for those blue shadows under his eyes, and the
shrunken muscles, and the withered skin, I could leave him to live
his life as he saw fit. But he was as dependent as a child, and as
capricious. What was the end to be? I asked myself. Where was it all
leading me?

And then, in a fearful and wonderful manner, my question was answered.

There came to my desk one day an envelope bearing the letter-head of
the publishing house to which I had sent my story. I balanced it for a
moment in my fingers, woman-fashion, wondering, hoping, surmising.

"Of course they can't want it," I told myself, in preparation for any
disappointment that was in store for me. "They're sending it back. This
is the letter that will tell me so."

And then I opened it. The words jumped out at me from the typewritten
page. I crushed the paper in my hands, and rushed into Blackie's little
office as I had been used to doing in the old days. He was at his desk,
pipe in mouth. I shook his shoulder and flourished the letter wildly,
and did a crazy little dance about his chair.

"They want it! They like it! Not only that, they want another, as soon
as I can get it out. Think of it!"

Blackie removed his pipe from between his teeth and wiped his lips with
the back of his hand. "I'm thinkin'," he said. "Anything t' oblige
you. When you're through shovin' that paper into my face would you mind
explainin' who wants what?"

"Oh, you're so stupid! So slow! Can't you see that I've written a real
live book, and had it accepted, and that I am going to write another if
I have to run away from a whole regiment of husbands to do it properly?
Blackie, can't you see what it means! Oh, Blackie, I know I'm maudlin
in my joy, but forgive me. It's been so long since I've had the taste of
it."

"Well, take a good chew while you got th'chance an' don't count too high
on this first book business. I knew a guy who wrote a book once, an' he
planned to take a trip to Europe on it, and build a house when he got
home, and maybe a yacht or so, if he wasn't too rushed. Sa-a-ay,
girl, w'en he got through gettin' those royalties for that book they'd
dwindled down to fresh wall paper for the dinin'-room, and a new gas
stove for his wife, an' not enough left over