He was in no mood for work.

The very sight of the typewritten page disgusted him.
As he now felt, the months spent on the story were time wasted.

It was ridiculous for him to attempt such a thing; or to believe that he could carry it through successfully; or to dream that he would ever be anything better than a literary hack, a cheap edition of "C." Dickens, minus the latter's colossal self-satisfaction.
He was still sitting there, twirling an idle pencil between his fingers, when he heard steps outside his door.

Someone knocked.
"Well, what is it ?" he asked.
His landlady answered.
"Mr.Pearson," she said, "may I see you ?" He threw down the pencil and, rising, walked to the door and opened it.
Mrs.Hepton was waiting in the hall.

She seemed excited.
"Mr.Pearson," she said, "will you step downstairs with me for a moment?
I have a surprise for you." "A surprise?
What sort of a surprise ?" "Oh, a pleasant one.