of whom
you spoke. She is poor, beautiful, and blind."

"Don't try to trade on my sympathies, old boy," said Ernst. "No person
who is poor has any right to become an author. It takes too long in
these days to make a hit, and the poor author is bound to die before
the hit comes. The 'beautiful' gag don't work with me at all. The best
authors are homelier than sin and it's a pity that their pictures are
ever published. As regards the 'blind' part, that may be an advantage,
for dictating relieves one of the drudgery of writing one's self, and
gives one a chance for a fuller play of one's fancies than if tied to a
piece of wood, a scratchy pen, and a bottle of thick ink."

"Then you won't look at them," said Quincy.

"I didn't say so," replied Ernst. "Of course, I can't look at them in a
business way, unless they are duly submitted to my house, but I have
been reading a very badly written, but mightily interesting manuscript,
for the past two days and a half, and I want a change of work or
diversion, to brush up my wits. Now, old fellow," said he, taking Quincy
by the arm, "if you will come up to the club with me, and have a good
dinner with some Chianti, and a glass or two of champagne, and a pousse
cafe to finish up with, then we will go up to my rooms on Chestnut
Street--I have a whole top floor to myself--we will light up our cigars,
and you may read to me till to-morrow morning and I won't murmur. But,
mind you, if the stories are mighty poor I may go to sleep, and if I do
that, you might as well go to bed too, for when I once go to sleep I
never wake up till I get good and ready."

Quincy had intended after seeing a publisher to leave the manuscripts
for examination, then to take tea with his mother and sisters, and go
back to Eastborough on the five minutes past six express. But he was
prone to yield to fate, which is simply circumstances, and he accepted
his old college chum's invitation with alacrity. He could get the
opinion of an expert speedily, and that fact carried the day with him.

When they were comfortably ensconced in their easy-chairs on the top
floor, and the cigars lighted, Quincy commenced reading. Leopold had
previously shown him his suite, which consisted of a parlor, or rather a
sitting-room, a library, which included principally the works of
standard authors and reference books, his sleeping apartment, and a
bathroom.

There was a large bed lounge in the sitting-room, and Quincy determined