ppeared to say. Her voice, however, said nothing except, 'Will you
take a seat a moment?' and not even that until Henry had asked if Mr.
Snyder was in.

The prospective client examined the room. It had a carpet, and lovely
almanacs on the walls, and in one corner, on a Japanese table, was a
tea-service in blue and white. Tables more massive bore enormous piles
of all shapes and sizes of manuscripts, scores and hundreds or unprinted
literary works, and they all carried labels, 'Mark Snyder, Literary
Agent.' _Love in Babylon_ shrank so small that Henry could scarcely
detect its presence under his arm.

Then Goldenhair, who had vanished, came back, and, with the most
enchanting smile that Henry had ever seen on the face of a pretty woman,
lured him by delicious gestures into Mr. Mark Snyder's private office.

'Well,' exclaimed Mr. Snyder, full of good-humour, 'here we are again.'
He was a fair, handsome man of about forty, and he sat at a broad table
playing with a revolver. 'What do you think of that, Mr. Knight?' he
asked sharply, holding out the revolver for inspection.

'It seems all right,' said Henry lamely.

Mr. Snyder laughed heartily. 'I'm going to America to-morrow. I told
you, didn't I? Never been there before. So I thought I'd get a revolver.
Never know, you know. Eh?' He laughed again.

Then he suddenly ceased laughing, and sniffed the air.

'Is this a business office?' Henry asked himself. 'Or is it a club?'

His feet were on a Turkey carpet. He was seated in a Chippendale chair.
A glorious fire blazed behind a brass fender, and the receptacle for
coal was of burnished copper. Photogravures in rich oaken frames adorned
the roseate walls. The ceiling was an expanse of ornament, with an
electric chandelier for centre.

'Have a cigarette?' said Mr. Snyder, pushing across towards Henry a tin
of Egyptians.

'Thanks,' said Henry, who did not usually smoke, and he put _Love in
Babylon_ on the table.

Mr. Snyder sniffed the air again.

'Now, what can I do for you?' said he abruptly.

Henry explained the genesis, exodus, and vicissitudes of _Love in
Babylon_, and Mr. Snyder stretched out an arm and idly turned over a few
leaves of the manuscript as it lay before its author.

'Who's your amanuensis?' he demanded, smiling.

'My aunt,' said Henry.

'Ah yes!' said Mr. Snyder, smiling still, 'It's too short, you know,' he
added, grave. 'Too short. What length is it?'

'Nearly three hundred folios.'