The World of Chance by William Dean Howells

The editor of _Every Evening_ gave Ray his manuscript back. He had / evidently no expectation that Ray could have any personal feeling about / it, or could view it apart from the interests of the paper. He himself / betrayed no personal feeling where the paper was concerned, and he / probably could have conceived of none in Ray.

"I don't think it will do for us," he said. "It is a good story, and I / read it all through, but I don't believe it would succeed as a serial. / What do you think, yourself?"

"I? " said Ray. "How could I have an unprejudiced opinion?"

"I don't see why you shouldn't. You know what we want; we've talked it / over enough; and you ought to know whether this is the kind of thing. / Anyhow, it's within your province to decide. I don't think it will do, / but if you think it will, I'm satisfied. You must take the / responsibility. I leave it to you, and I mean business."

Ray thought how old Kane would be amused if he could know of the / situation, how he would inspect and comment it from every side, and try / to get novel phrases for it. He believed himself that no author had / ever been quite in his place before; it was like something in Gilbert's / operas; it was as if a prisoner were invited to try himself and / pronounce his own penalty. His chief seemed to see no joke in the / affair; he remained soberly and somewhat severely waiting for Ray's / decision.

"I'm afraid you're right," said Ray. "I don't think it would do for / _Every Evening_. Even if it would, I should doubt the taste of working / in something of my own on the reader at the beginning."

"I shouldn't care for that," said the chief, "if it were the thing."

Ray winced, but the chief did not see it. Now, as always, it was merely / and simply a question of the paper. He added carelessly:

"I should think such a story as that would succeed as a book."

"I wish you would get some publisher to think so."

The chief had nothing to say to that. He opened his desk and began to / write.

In spite of the rejected manuscript lying on the table before him, Ray / made out a very fair day's work himself, and then he took it up town / with him. He did not go at once to his hotel, but pushed on as far as / Chapley's, where he hoped to see Peace before she went home, and ask how / her father was getting on; he had not visited Hughes for several weeks; / he made himself this excuse. What he really wished was to confront the / girl and divine her thoughts concerning himself. He must do that, now; / but if it were not for the cruelty of forsaking the old man, it might / be the kindest and best thing never to go near any of them again.

He had the temporary relief of finding her gone home when he reached / Chapley's. Mr. Brandreth was there, and he welcomed Ray with something / more than his usual cordiality.

"Look here," he said, shutting the door of his little room. "Have you / got that story of yours where you could put your hand on it easily?"

"I can put my hand on it instantly," said Ray, and he touched it.

"Oh! " Mr. Brandreth returned, a little daunted. "I didn't know you / carried it around with you."

"I don't usually -- or only when I've got it from some publisher who / doesn't want it."

"I thought it had been the rounds," said Mr. Brandreth, still uneasily.

"Oh, it's an editor, this time. It's just been offered to me for serial / use in _Every Evening_, and I've declined it."

"What do you mean? " Mr. Brandreth smiled in mystification.