eparted, and glad enough he was to go.

As he went a clerk arrived, and gave a card to the great man.

"Miss Augusta Smithers," he read; then with a grunt, "show Miss Augusta
Smithers in."

Presently Miss Augusta Smithers arrived. She was a tall, well-formed
young lady of about twenty-five, with pretty golden hair, deep grey
eyes, a fine forehead, and a delicate mouth; just now, however, she
looked very nervous.

"Well, Miss Smithers, what is it?" asked the publisher.

"I came, Mr. Meeson--I came about my book."

"Your book, Miss Smithers?" this was an affectation of forgetfulness;
"let me see?--forgive me, but we publish so many books. Oh, yes, I
remember; 'Jemima's Vow.' Oh, well, I believe it is going on fairly."

"I saw you advertised the sixteenth thousand the other day," put in Miss
Smithers, apologetically.

"Did we--did we? ah, then, you know more about it than I do," and he
looked at his visitor in a way that conveyed clearly enough that he
considered the interview was ended.

Miss Smithers rose, and then, with a spasmodic effort, sat down again.
"The fact is, Mr. Meeson," she said--"The fact is, that, I thought that,
perhaps, as 'Jemima's Vow' had been such a great success, you might,
perhaps--in short, you might be inclined to give me some small sum in
addition to what I have received."

Mr. Meeson looked up. His forehead was wrinkled till the shaggy eyebrows
nearly hid the sharp little eyes.

"What!" he said. "_What_!"

At this moment the door opened, and a young gentleman came slowly in. He
was a very nice-looking young man, tall and well shaped, with a fair skin
and jolly blue eyes--in short, a typical young Englishman of the better
sort, aetate suo twenty-four. I have said that he came slowly in, but
that scarcely conveys the gay and _degage_ air of independence which
pervaded this young man, and which would certainly have struck any
observer as little short of shocking, when contrasted with the worm-like
attitude of those who crept round the feet of Meeson. This young man had
not, indeed, even taken the trouble to remove his hat, which was stuck
upon the back of his head, his hands were in his pockets, a sacrilegious
whistle hovered on his lips, and he opened the door of the sanctum
sanctorum of the Meeson establishment _with a kick_!

"How do, uncle?" he said to the Commercial Terror, who was sitting there
behind his formidable books, addressing him even as though he were an
ordinary man