e?'

'I'll take a hundred.'

'My dear young man!' Mr. Onions Winter turned suddenly to reason blandly
with Henry. 'Are you aware that that means five pounds a thousand words?
Many authors of established reputation would be glad to receive as much.
No, I should like to publish your book, but I am neither a
philanthropist nor a millionaire.'

'What I should really prefer,' said Henry, 'would be so much on every
copy sold.'

'Ah! A royalty?'

'Yes. A royalty. I think that is fairer to both parties,' said Henry
judicially.

'So you'd prefer a royalty,' Mr. Onions Winter addressed Shakspere
again. 'Well. Let me begin by telling you that first books by new
authors never pay expenses. Never! Never! I always lose money on them.
But you believe in your book? You believe in it, don't you?' He faced
Henry once more.

'Yes,' said Henry.

'Then, you must have the courage of your convictions. I will give you a
royalty of three halfpence in the shilling on every copy after the first
five thousand. Thus, if it succeeds, you will share in the profit. If it
fails, my loss will be the less. That's fair, isn't it?'

It seemed fair to Henry. But he was not Sir George's private secretary
for nothing.

'You must make it twopence in the shilling,' he said in an urbane but
ultimatory tone.

'Very well,' Mr. Onions Winter surrendered at once. 'We'll say twopence,
and end it.'

'And what will the price of the book be?' Henry inquired.

'Two shillings, naturally. I intend it for the Satin Library. You know
about the Satin Library? You don't know about the Satin Library? My dear
sir, I hope it's going to be _the_ hit of the day. Here's a dummy copy.'
Mr. Winter picked up an orange-tinted object from a side-table. 'Feel
that cover! Look at it! Doesn't it feel like satin? Doesn't it look like
satin? But it isn't satin. It's paper--a new invention, the latest
thing. You notice the book-marker _is_ of satin--real satin. Now
observe the shape--isn't that original? And yet quite simple--it's
exactly square! And that faint design of sunflowers! These books will be
perfect bibelots; that's what they'll be--bibelots. Of course, between
you and me, there isn't going to be very much for the money--a hundred
and fifty quite small pages. But that's between you and me. And the
satin will carry it off. You'll see these charming bijou volumes in
every West End drawing-room, Mr. Knight, in a few weeks. Take my word
for it. By the way, will you si