the real insult was that this publishing house, instead of having a
building, or at least a floor, all to itself, simply had a place
penned off in a bleak, dirty building such as one who had done work
in sociological research instinctively associated with a box
factory. And the thing which fairly trailed her visions in the dust
was that the partition penning them off did not extend to the
ceiling, and the adjoining room being occupied by a patent medicine
company, she was face to face with glaring endorsements of Dr.
Bunting's Famous Kidney and Bladder Cure. Taken all in all there
seemed little chance for Greek tragedies or the Renaissance.

The man who was "running things"--she buried her phraseology with
her dreams--wore a skull cap, and his moustache dragged down below
his chin. Just at present he was engaged in noisily pulling a most
unliterary pine table from a dark corner to a place near the window.
That accomplished, an ostentatious hunt ensued, resulting in the
triumphant flourish of a feather duster. Several knocks at the
table, and the dust of many months--perhaps likewise of many
dreams--ascended to a resting place on the endorsement of Dr.
Bunting's Kidney and Bladder Cure. He next produced a short,
straight-backed chair which she recognised as brother to the one
which used to stand behind their kitchen stove. He gave it a shake,
thus delicately indicating that she was receiving special favours in
this matter of an able-bodied chair, and then announced with brisk
satisfaction: "So! Now we are ready to begin." She murmured a "Thank
you," seated herself and her buried hopes in this chair which did
not whirl round, and leaned her arms upon a table which did not even
dream in mahogany.

In the _other_ publishing house, one pushed buttons and