The Eleventh Hour

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It was damp, it was cold; smog filled the air and rasped at the eyeballs even indoors; it was everything a day in April should not be. Arthur Conway, as he came downstairs to breakfast, ruefully acknowledged that Los Angeles could serve up as dismal weather as could be found anywhere in the world. He had planned to get out: to take a lunch, drive up in the hills, and hike until nightfall. Any day, now, there should be word about the two stories, so he could afford to loaf a bit — get out, get a little fresh air. It seemed absurd, but he had got less exercise out here than in New York; nobody walks in California, and walking was the only form of physical exertion he enjoyed.

But in weather like this, it was out of the question; even the alternative, a day in the house with Helen, was preferable. It meant, of course, that he would at least have to make a pretense of writing.

He saw them the instant he walked into the dining room: the two manila envelopes alongside his place at the table. There was no need to open them; he knew what they were. And from the way they were displayed, it was obvious that Helen knew too. She had finished her breakfast, and he could hear her in the kitchen; he realized he would have to face her, and he knew it would not be pleasant. He had had high hopes for these stories, and it was depressing to have them rejected, but his disappointment was secondary now to his concern at the prospect of the galling scene he knew was coming.

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