ought I might ask if you had come to--to my little book
yet."

In five minutes of time Rosella knew just where Harold Vickers was to be
placed, to what type he belonged. He was the young man of great talent
who, so far from being discovered by the outside world, had not even
discovered himself. He would be in two minds as yet about his calling in
life, whether it was to be the hatching of fish or the writing of "Last
Dryads." No one had yet taken him in hand, had so much as spoken a word
to him. If she told him now that his book was a ridiculous failure, he
would no doubt say--and believe--that she was quite right, that he had
felt as much himself. If she told him his book was a little masterpiece,
he would be just as certain to tell himself, and with equal sincerity,
that he had known it from the first.

He had offered his manuscript nowhere else as yet. He was as new as an
overnight daisy, and as destructible in Rosella's hands.

"Yes," she said at length, "I have read your manuscript." She paused a
moment, then: "But I am not quite ready to pass upon it yet."

He was voluble in his protestations.

"Oh, that is all right," she interrupted. "I can come to the second
reading in a day or two. I could send you word by the end of the week."

"Thank you, Miss. Beltis." He paused awkwardly, smiling in deprecatory
fashion. "Do you--from what you have seen of it--read of it--do you--how
does it strike you? As good enough to publish--or fit for the
waste-basket?"

Ah, why had this situation leaped upon her thus unawares, and all
unprepared! Why had she not been allowed time, opportunity, to fortify
herself!

What she said now would mean so much. Best err, then, on the safe side;
and which side was that? Her words seemed to come of themselves, and she
almost physically felt herself withdraw from the responsibility of what
this other material Rosella Beltis was saying.

"I don't know," said the other Rosella. "I should not care to say--so
soon. You see--there are so many manuscripts. I generally trust to the
first impression on the second reading." She did not even hear his
answer, but she said, when he had done speaking, that even in case of an
unfavorable report there were, of course, other publishers.

But he answered that the judgment of such a house as the Conants would
suffice for him. Somehow he could not peddle his story about New York.
If the Conants would not take his work, nobody would.

And that was the l