ought it would look duffing
to be offended, so I said--

'This is my brother Noel. He is the poet.' Noel had turned quite pale.
He is disgustingly like a girl in some ways. The Editor told us to sit
down, and he took the poems from Noel, and began to read them. Noel got
paler and paler; I really thought he was going to faint, like he did
when I held his hand under the cold-water tap, after I had accidentally
cut him with my chisel. When the Editor had read the first poem--it was
the one about the beetle--he got up and stood with his back to us. It
was not manners; but Noel thinks he did it 'to conceal his emotion,' as
they do in books. He read all the poems, and then he said--

'I like your poetry very much, young man. I'll give you--let me see; how
much shall I give you for it?'

'As much as ever you can,' said Noel. 'You see I want a good deal of
money to restore the fallen fortunes of the house of Bastable.'

The gentleman put on some eye-glasses and looked hard at us. Then he sat
down.

'That's a good idea,' said he. 'Tell me how you came to think of it.
And, I say, have you had any tea? They've just sent out for mine.'

He rang a tingly bell, and the boy brought in a tray with a teapot and
a thick cup and saucer and things, and he had to fetch another tray for
us, when he was told to; and we had tea with the Editor of the Daily
Recorder. I suppose it was a very proud moment for Noel, though I
did not think of that till afterwards. The Editor asked us a lot of
questions, and we told him a good deal, though of course I did not tell
a stranger all our reasons for thinking that the family fortunes wanted
restoring. We stayed about half an hour, and when we were going away he
said again--

'I shall print all your poems, my poet; and now what do you think
they're worth?'

'I don't know,' Noel said. 'You see I didn't write them to sell.'

'Why did you write them then?' he asked.

Noel said he didn't know; he supposed because he wanted to.

'Art for Art's sake, eh?' said the Editor, and he seemed quite
delighted, as though Noel had said something clever.

'Well, would a guinea meet your views?' he asked.

I have read of people being at a loss for words, and dumb with emotion,
and I've read of people being turned to stone with astonishment, or
joy, or something, but I never knew how silly it looked till I saw Noel
standing staring at the Editor with his mouth open. He went red and he
went white, and then he