they?"

"No, there isn't one about London," Guy pointed out, rather sharply.

"No, precisely; then of course they would _not_ come in The London Pride
set which still has a vacancy. Perhaps The Cowslip? What does the reader
say? Um, yes, pastoral! Precisely! Well, then why not let us decide that
your poems shall be Number Three in The Cowslip set. Capital! I think
you'd be wise to choose the Covent Garden series in paper. The cost of
publication is really less in that series, and I have always chosen my
poets so carefully that I can be sure the Press will pay attention
to--er neophytes. That is a great advantage for a young writer, as you
no doubt realize without my telling you?"

"The cost?" echoed Guy in a puzzled voice.

"It will run you in for about thirty pounds--as a guarantee of course.
The terms I suggest are simply a written agreement that you will
guarantee thirty pounds towards the cost. Your royalty to be ten per
cent. on the first thousand, twelve and a half on the next thousand, and
fifteen over two thousand. We might fairly say that in the event of
selling a thousand you would have nothing to pay, but, of course, if you
only sell twenty or thirty, you will have to--er--pay for your piping."

"And when should I have to produce this thirty pounds?" Guy asked.

"Well, I might ask for a cheque to be placed to my account on the day of
publication; and then, of course, I should send in a written statement
twice a year with the usual three months' margin for settlement."

"So that supposing my book came out in March?" Guy inquired.

"By the following November I should hope to have the pleasure of sending
you back your thirty pounds and a cheque on account of royalties," said
the publisher, briskly.

"They don't seem very good terms, somehow," said Guy.

Mr. Worrall shrugged his shoulders, and his conical head grew more
conical.

"You forget the advantage of being in the Covent Garden Series of Modern
Poets. However, don't, pray do not, intrust your manuscript to my
pilotage unless you are perfectly satisfied. I have a good many poems to
consider, you know."

"May I write within a week or so and give you my decision?" Guy asked.

"Naturally."

"Well, good-by."

"Good-by, Mr. Hazlewood. Clever fellow, isn't he?"

Guy had given a farewell glance at Max Beerbohm's caricature.

"Very clever," the poet fervently agreed.

Guy left Mr. William Worrall's office and wandered dismally across
Covent G