so great
was the reliance upon her judgment, that she was the only one employed.
Manuscripts that she "passed up" went direct to Conant himself, while
the great army of the "declined" had no second chance. For the
"unavailables" her word was final.

From the first--which was when her initial literary venture, a little
book of short tales of Sicily and the Sicilians, was published by the
house--her relations with the Conants had been intimate. Conant believed
in her, and for the sake of the time when her books could be considered
safe investments, was willing to lose a few dollars during the time of
her apprenticeship. For the tales had enjoyed only a fleeting _succes
d'estime_. Her style was, like her temperament, delicately constructed
and of extreme refinement, not the style to appeal to the masses. It was
"searched," a little _precieuse_, and the tales themselves were
diaphanous enough, polished little _contes_, the points subtle, the
action turning upon minute psychological distinctions.

Yet she had worked desperately hard upon their composition. She was of
those very few who sincerely cannot write unless the mood be propitious;
and her state of mind, the condition of her emotions, was very apt to
influence her work for good or ill, as the case might be.

But a _succes d'estime_ fills no purses, and favorable reviews in the
literary periodicals are not "negotiable paper." Rosella could not yet
live wholly by her pen, and thought herself fortunate when the house
offered her the position of reader.

This arrival of hers was no doubt to be hastened, if not actually
assured, by the publication of her first novel, "Patroclus," upon which
she was at this time at work. The evening before, she had read the draft
of the story to Trevor, and even now, as she cut the string of the first
manuscript of the pile, she was thinking over what Trevor had said of
it, and smiling as she thought.

It was through Conant that Rosella had met the great novelist and
critic, and it was because of Conant that Trevor had read Rosella's
first little book. He had taken an interest at once, and had found
occasion to say to her that she had it in her to make a niche for
herself in American letters.

He was a man old enough to be her grandfather, and Rosella often came to
see him in his study, to advise with him as to doubtful points in her
stories or as to ideas for those as yet unwritten. To her his opinion
was absolutely final. This old