to-date atlas," said Mellowkent; "and now I must really ask you to be
going."

"An atlas," said Caiaphas, "gives merely the chart of the river's course,
and indicates the principal towns that it passes. Now _Right Here_ gives
you the scenery, traffic, ferry-boat charges, the prevalent types of
fish, boatmen's slang terms, and hours of sailing of the principal river
steamers. If gives you--"

Mellowkent sat and watched the hard-featured, resolute, pitiless
salesman, as he sat doggedly in the chair wherein he had installed
himself, unflinchingly extolling the merits of his undesired wares. A
spirit of wistful emulation took possession of the author; why could he
not live up to the cold stern name he had adopted? Why must he sit here
weakly and listen to this weary, unconvincing tirade, why could he not be
Mark Mellowkent for a few brief moments, and meet this man on level
terms?

A sudden inspiration flashed across his.

"Have you read my last book, _The Cageless Linnet_?" he asked.

"I don't read novels," said Caiaphas tersely.

"Oh, but you ought to read this one, every one ought to," exclaimed
Mellowkent, fishing the book down from a shelf; "published at six
shillings, you can have it at four-and-six. There is a bit in chapter
five that I feel sure you would like, where Emma is alone in the birch
copse waiting for Harold Huntingdon--that is the man her family want her
to marry. She really wants to marry him, too, but she does not discover