Plans

It was the old story of woman comforting man in his affliction; the
trouble in this instance appearing in the shape of a long blue envelope
addressed to himself in his own handwriting. Poor young poet! He had
no more appetite for eggs and bacon that morning; he pushed aside even
his coffee, and buried his head in his hands.

"Back again!" he groaned. "Always back, and back, and back, and these
are my last verses: the best I have written. I felt sure that these
would have been taken!"

"So they will be, some day," comforted the woman. "You have only to be
patient and go on trying. I'll re-type the first and last pages, and
iron out the dog's ears, and we will send it off on a fresh journey.
Why don't you try the Pinnacle Magazine? There ought to be a chance
there. They published some awful bosh last month."

The poet was roused to a passing indignation.

"As feeble as mine, I suppose! Oh, well, if even you turn against me,
it is time I gave up the struggle."

"Even you" was not in this instance a wife, but "only a sister," so
instead of falling on her accuser's neck with explanations and caresses,
she helped herself to a second cup of coffee, and replied coolly-"Silly thing! You know quite well that I do nothing of the sort, so
don't be high-falutin. I should not encourage you to waste time if I
did not know that you were going to succeed in the end. I don't think;
I know!"