conversing with one who must be thinking of nobler things, I found she
was less shy when on that subject than when talking about her book.

"Well now," I said, as soon as I had got her seated, "we have decided to
buy this novel of yours. Can you recommend it as a thoroughly
respectable and intellectual production?"

She said she could.

"Haven't you read it?" she asked in some surprise.

"No," I stammered. "At least, not yet. I'm going to as soon as I can
find the requisite leisure. You see, we are very busy just now--very
busy. But if you can vouch for the story being a first-class
article--something, say, like 'The Vicar of Wakefield' or 'David
Harum'--we'll take it."

"Now you're talking," she said. "And do I get the check now?"

"Wait," I said; "not so fast. I have forgotten one thing," and I saw her
face fall. "We want the privilege of publishing the novel under a title
of our own, and anonymously. If that is not satisfactory the deal is
off."

She brightened in a moment.

"It's a go, if that's all," she said. "Call it whatever you please, and
the more anonymous it is the better it will suit yours truly."

So we settled the matter then and there, and when I gave her our check