ove in Babylon_?' began Mr. Winter. He
was a tall man, with burning eyes, grey hair, a grey beard which stuck
out like the sun's rays, but no moustache. The naked grey upper lip was
very deep, and somehow gave him a formidable appearance. He wore a silk
hat at the back of his head, and a Melton overcoat rather like Henry's
own, but much longer.

'You like it?' said Henry boldly.

'I think---- The fact is, I will be frank with you, Mr. Knight.' Here
Mr. Onions Winter picked up _Love in Babylon_, which lay before him, and
sniffed at it exactly as Mr. Snyder had done. 'The fact is, I shouldn't
have thought twice about it if it hadn't been for this peculiar
odour----'

Here Henry explained the odour.

'Ah yes. Very interesting!' observed Mr. Winter without a smile. 'Very
curious! We might make a par out of that. Onions--onions. The public
likes these coincidences. Well, as I tell you, I shouldn't have thought
twice about it if it hadn't been for this----' (Sniff, sniff.) 'Then I
happened to glance at the title, and the title attracted me. I must
admit that the title attracted me. You have hit on a very pretty title,
Mr. Knight, a very pretty title indeed. I took your book home and read
it myself, Mr. Knight. I didn't send it to any of my readers. Not a soul
in this office has read it except me. I'm a bit superstitious, you know.
We all are--everyone is, when it comes to the point. And that
Onions--onions! And then the pretty title! I like your book, Mr. Knight.
I tell you candidly, I like it. It's graceful and touching, and
original. It's got atmosphere. It's got that indefinable something--_je
ne sais quoi_--that we publishers are always searching for. Of course
it's crude--very crude in places. It might be improved. What do you want
for it, Mr. Knight? What are you asking?'

Mr. Onions Winter rose and walked to the window in order, apparently, to
drink his fill of the statue of Shakspere in the middle of the square.

'I don't know,' said Henry, overjoyed but none the less perplexed. 'I
have not considered the question of price.'

'Will you take twenty-five pounds cash down for it--lock, stock, and
barrel? You know it's very short. In fact, I'm just about the only
publisher in London who would be likely to deal with it.'

Henry kept silence.

'Eh?' demanded Mr. Onions Winter, still perusing the Shaksperean
forehead. 'Cash down. Will you take it?'

'No, I won't, thank you,' said Henry.

'Then what will you tak