acles--if a little
disapproved of by Maud on account of the air of steadiness which they
imparted--suggested excellent son-in-lawlike qualities to Mr. and Mrs.
Barnes. He had the promise of a fair moustache, but his complexion
generally was colourless. His features, except for a certain regularity,
were undistinguished. His speech was modest and correct. His manner
varied with his company. To-night it had been pronounced, by excellent
judges--genteel.

The conversation consisted--naturally enough, under the
circumstances--of a course of subtle and judicious pumping, tactfully
prompted, for the most part, by Mrs. Barnes. Such, for instance, as the
following:

"Talking about Marie Corelli's new book reminds me, Mr. Fitzgerald--your
occupation is connected with books, is it not?" his prospective
mother-in-law enquired, artlessly.

Mr. Fitzgerald bowed assent.

"I am cashier at Howell & Wilson's in Cheapside," he said. "We sell
a great many books there--as many, I should think, as any retail
establishment in London."

"Indeed!" Mrs. Barnes purred. "Very interesting work, I am sure. So nice
and intellectual, too; for, of course, you must be looking inside them
sometimes."

"I know the place well," Mr. Adolphus Barnes, Junior, announced
condescendingly,--"pass it every day on my way to lunch."

"So much nicer," Mrs. Barnes continued, "than any of the ordinary
businesses--grocery or drapery, or anything of that sort."

Miss Maud elevated her eyebrows slightly. Was it likely that she would
have looked with eyes of favour upon a young man engaged in any of these
inferior occupations?

"There's money in books, too," Mr. Barnes declared with sudden
inspiration. His prospective son-in-law turned towards him
deferentially.

"You are right, sir," he admitted. "There is money in them. There's
money for those who write, and there's money for those who sell. My
occupation," he continued, with a modest little cough, "brings me often
into touch with publishers, travellers and clerks, so I am, as it were,
behind the scenes to some extent. I can assure you," he continued,
looking from Mr. Barnes to his wife, and finally transfixing Mr.
Adolphus--"I can assure you that the money paid by some firms of
publishers to a few well-known authors--I will mention no names--as
advances against royalties, is something stupendous!"

"Ah!" Mr. Barnes murmured, solemnly shaking his head.

"Marie Corelli, I expect, and that Hall Caine," re