ted too
close a resemblance to the well-known type of a distressed author. Her
deep mourning, the thick veil almost concealing her face; a straw
clinging to the hem of her dress and telling too plainly of
omnibus-riding; her somewhat sad and agitated voice; Madame's widow's
cap, and unpretending demeanor--all were against her chances of
attention. The publisher, who had risen from his desk, did not invite
them to be seated. He glanced at Felicita's card, which bore the simple
inscription, "Mrs. Sefton."

"You know my name?" she asked, faltering a little before his keen-eyed,
shrewd, business-like observation. He shook his head slightly.

"I am the writer of a book called 'Haughmond Towers,'" she added,
"published by Messrs. Price and Gould. It came out last May."

"I never heard of it," he answered solemnly. Felicita felt as if he had
struck her. This was an unaccountable thing; he was a publisher, and she
an author; yet he had never heard of her book. It was impossible that
she had understood him, and she spoke again eagerly.

"It was noticed in all the reviews," she said, "and my publishers
assured me it was quite a success. I could send you the reviews of it."

"Pray do not trouble yourself," he answered; "I do not doubt it in the
least. But there are hundreds of books published every season, and it is
impossible for one head, even a publisher's, to retain all the titles
and the names of the authors."

"But I hope mine was not like hundreds of others," remarked Felicita.

"Every author hopes so," he said; "and besides the mass that is printed,
somehow, at some one's expense, there are hundreds of manuscripts
submitted to us. Pardon me, but may I ask if you write for amusement or
for remuneration."

"For my living," she replied, with a sorrowful inflection of her voice
which alarmed the publisher. How often had he faced a widowed mother
and her daughter, in mourning so deep as to suggest the recentness of
their loss. There was a slight movement of his hand, unperceived by
either of them, and a brisk rap was heard on the door behind them.

"In a moment," he said, looking over their heads. "I am afraid," he went
on, "if I asked you to leave your manuscript on approbation, it might be
months before our readers could look at it. We have scores, if not
hundreds, waiting."

"Could you recommend any publisher to me?" asked Felicita.

"Why not go again to Price and Gould?" he inquired.

"I must get more money th