Then the unsophisticated youth would go away, his heart too full for words, but pondering how these things were, and by-and-by he would pass into the Meeson melting-pot and learn something about it.

One day King Meeson sat in his counting house counting out his money, or, at least, looking over the books of the firm.  He was in a very bad temper, and his heavy brows were wrinkled up in a way calculated to make the counting-house clerks shake on their stools.  Meeson’s had a branch establishment at Sydney, in Australia, which establishment had, until lately, been paying—­it is true not as well as the English one, but, still, fifteen or twenty per cent.  But now a wonder had come to pass.  A great American publishing firm had started an opposition house in Melbourne, and their “cuteness” was more than the “cuteness” of Meeson.  Did Meeson’s publish an edition of the works of any standard author at threepence per volume the opposition company brought out the same work at twopence-halfpenny; did Meeson’s subsidise a newspaper to puff their undertakings, the opposition firm subsidised two to cry them down, and so on.  And now the results of all this were becoming apparent:  for the financial year just ended the Australian branch had barely earned a beggarly net dividend of seven per cent.

No wonder Mr. Meeson was furious, and no wonder that the clerks shook upon their stools.

“This must be seen into, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, bringing his fist down with a bang on to the balance-sheet.

No. 3 was one of the editors; a mild-eyed little man with blue spectacles.  He had once been a writer of promise; but somehow Meeson’s had got him for its own, and turned him into a publisher’s hack.

“Quite so, Sir,” he said humbly.  “It is very bad—­it is dreadful to think of Meeson’s coming down to seven per cent—­seven per cent!” and he held up his hands.

“Don’t stand there like a stuck pig, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, fiercely; “but suggest something.”

“Well, Sir,” said No. 3 more humbly than ever, for he was terribly afraid of his employer; “I think, perhaps, that somebody had better go to Australia, and see what can be done.”

“I know one thing that can be done,” said Mr. Meeson, with a snarl:  “all those fools out there can be sacked, and sacked they shall be; and, what’s more, I’ll go and sack them myself.  That will do No. 3; that will do;” and No. 3 departed, and glad enough he was to go.

As he went a clerk arrived, and gave a card to the great man.

“Miss Augusta Smithers,” he read; then with a grunt, “show Miss Augusta Smithers in.”

Presently Miss Augusta Smithers arrived.  She was a tall, well-formed young lady of about twenty-five, with pretty golden hair, deep grey eyes, a fine forehead, and a delicate mouth; just now, however, she looked very nervous.

“Well, Miss Smithers, what is it?” asked the publisher.

“I came, Mr. Meeson—­I came about my book.”