restoring. We stayed about half an hour, and when we were going away he
said again--

'I shall print all your poems, my poet; and now what do you think
they're worth?'

'I don't know,' Noel said. 'You see I didn't write them to sell.'

'Why did you write them then?' he asked.

Noel said he didn't know; he supposed because he wanted to.

'Art for Art's sake, eh?' said the Editor, and he seemed quite
delighted, as though Noel had said something clever.

'Well, would a guinea meet your views?' he asked.

I have read of people being at a loss for words, and dumb with emotion,
and I've read of people being turned to stone with astonishment, or joy,
or something, but I never knew how silly it looked till I saw Noel
standing staring at the Editor with his mouth open. He went red and he
went white, and then he got crimson, as if you were rubbing more and
more crimson lake on a palette. But he didn't say a word, so Oswald had
to say--

'I should jolly well think so.'

So the Editor gave Noel a sovereign and a shilling, and he shook hands
with us both, but he thumped Noel on the back and said--