'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