Would it cost a great sum?" inquired Phyllis.

"Something less than fifty pounds for the first edition; a small
edition. If there were a second, of course, they would pay the charges,
but I should get nothing."

Phyllis sat sewing thoughtfully. Suddenly John saw that her eyes were
filled with tears.

"If there weren't me to think of, you might--" she began.

John had her in his arms in the big chair in less time than it takes to
tell it. When her troubled heart was comforted, he returned to his desk.

"However, I have been the rounds of the publishers now. I started with
the best and I have seen them all. I have condescended to the smallest.
I have even tried the Populars. But it has all been of no use. Same
story everywhere. 'Marked ability, but we regret.'"

"If you had friends with influence----" Phyllis began, but John
interrupted her.

"I wouldn't if I could, and I haven't if I would," said he. "But the
fact is there's less of that than you think. 'Pull' isn't required; I
can say that even when I am at the end of my rope. Books are published
honestly, on their quality; mine simply hasn't the quality the public
likes. It may be Art--but will it sell? That's the question."

Having plumbed the depths, John took up his pen again; his chin resolute
as ever.

That evening when Mrs. Farquharson tapped at the door, John was teaching
Phyllis chess.

"Just in time, Farquharson," said Phyllis. "I am routed horse and
foot--by a man without a queen, too."

The chessboard was set aside; a chair brought forward; but Mrs.
Farquharson would not sit down; she rarely would when John was present.

"No, my dear, no. I just dropped in for a minute--not to disturb ever.
Besides, Genevieve's walking out with her young man, and there's the
bell to watch. No, I just dropped in to say that Mr. Rowlandson--the
rooms over yours, Mr. Landless--Mr. Rowlandson says, 'Tell the young
lady she may like to go up to my rooms some morning when I am not there
to bother her,' he says, 'and look at my fans and patch-boxes. They're
pretty, too,' says he, 'as pretty as her valentines.' And so they are,
my deary dear, and you must go up and see them. Oh, yes, he knows all
about your valentines. He bought them for your uncle, at your father's
sale, and a pretty penny they cost. More than two hundred pounds. It
seems your uncle was bidding against some public institution."

Mrs. Farquharson replaced the proffered chair.

"Is the poetry book to