g."

"An atlas," said Caiaphas, "gives merely the chart of the river's course,
and indicates the principal towns that it passes. Now _Right Here_ gives
you the scenery, traffic, ferry-boat charges, the prevalent types of
fish, boatmen's slang terms, and hours of sailing of the principal river
steamers. If gives you--"

Mellowkent sat and watched the hard-featured, resolute, pitiless
salesman, as he sat doggedly in the chair wherein he had installed
himself, unflinchingly extolling the merits of his undesired wares. A
spirit of wistful emulation took possession of the author; why could he
not live up to the cold stern name he had adopted? Why must he sit here
weakly and listen to this weary, unconvincing tirade, why could he not be
Mark Mellowkent for a few brief moments, and meet this man on level
terms?

A sudden inspiration flashed across his.

"Have you read my last book, _The Cageless Linnet_?" he asked.

"I don't read novels," said Caiaphas tersely.

"Oh, but you ought to read this one, every one ought to," exclaimed
Mellowkent, fishing the book down from a shelf; "published at six
shillings, you can have it at four-and-six. There is a bit in chapter
five that I feel sure you would like, where Emma is alone in the birch
copse waiting for Harold Huntingdon--that is the man her family want her
to marry. She really wants to marry him, too, but she does not discover
that till chapter fifteen. Listen: 'Far as the eye could stretch rolled
the mauve and purple billows of heather, lit up here and there with the
glowing yellow of gorse and broom, and edged round with the delicate
greys and silver and green of the young birch trees. Tiny blue and brown
butterflies fluttered above the fronds of heather, revelling in the
sunlight, and overhead the larks were singing as only larks can sing. It
was a day when all Nature--"

"In _Right Here_ you have full information on all branches of Nature
study," broke in the bookagent, with a tired note sounding in his voice
for the first time; "forestry, insect life, bird migration, reclamation
of waste lands. As I was saying, no man who has to deal with the varied
interests of life--"

"I wonder if you would care for one of my earlier books, _The Reluctance
of Lady Cullumpton_," said Mellowkent, hunting again through the
bookshelf; "some people consider it my best novel. Ah, here it is. I
see there are one or two spots on the cover, so I won't ask more than
three-and-