about people just like those one meets every day!"

"I always say," Maud intervened, "that Spencer means to write a book
some day. He has quite the literary air, hasn't he, mother?"

"Indeed he has!" Mrs. Barnes declared, with an appreciative glance
at the gold-rimmed spectacles.

Mr. Fitzgerald modestly disclaimed any literary aspirations.

"The thing is a gift, after all," he declared, generously. "I can
keep accounts, and earn a fair salary at it, but if I attempted
fiction I should soon be up a tree."

Mr. Barnes nodded his approval of such sentiments.

"Every one to his trade, I say," he remarked. "What sort of
salaries do they pay now in the book trade?" he asked guilelessly.

"Very fair," Mr. Fitzgerald admitted candidly, - "very fair indeed."

"When I was your age," Mr. Barnes said reflectively, "I was getting
- let me see - forty-two shillings a week. Pretty good pay, too,
for those days."

Mr. Fitzgerald admitted the fact.

"Of course," he said apologetically, "salaries are a little higher
now all round. Mr. Howell has been very kind to me, - in fact I
have had two raises this year. I am getting four pounds ten now."