“Your book, Miss Smithers?” this was an affectation of forgetfulness; “let me see?—­forgive me, but we publish so many books.  Oh, yes, I remember; ‘Jemima’s Vow.’  Oh, well, I believe it is going on fairly.”

“I saw you advertised the sixteenth thousand the other day,” put in Miss Smithers, apologetically.

“Did we—­did we? ah, then, you know more about it than I do,” and he looked at his visitor in a way that conveyed clearly enough that he considered the interview was ended.

Miss Smithers rose, and then, with a spasmodic effort, sat down again.  “The fact is, Mr. Meeson,” she said—­“The fact is, that, I thought that, perhaps, as ‘Jemima’s Vow’ had been such a great success, you might, perhaps—­in short, you might be inclined to give me some small sum in addition to what I have received.”

Mr. Meeson looked up.  His forehead was wrinkled till the shaggy eyebrows nearly hid the sharp little eyes.

“What!” he said. “What!”

At this moment the door opened, and a young gentleman came slowly in.  He was a very nice-looking young man, tall and well shaped, with a fair skin and jolly blue eyes—­in short, a typical young Englishman of the better sort, aetate suo twenty-four.  I have said that he came slowly in, but that scarcely conveys the gay and degage air of independence which pervaded this young man, and which would certainly have struck any observer as little short of shocking, when contrasted with the worm-like attitude of those who crept round the feet of Meeson.  This young man had not, indeed, even taken the trouble to remove his hat, which was stuck upon the back of his head, his hands were in his pockets, a sacrilegious whistle hovered on his lips, and he opened the door of the sanctum sanctorum of the Meeson establishment with a kick!

“How do, uncle?” he said to the Commercial Terror, who was sitting there behind his formidable books, addressing him even as though he were an ordinary man.  “Why, what’s up?”

Just then, however, he caught sight of the very handsome young lady who was seated in the office, and his whole demeanour underwent a most remarkable change; out came the hands from his pockets, off went the hat, and, turning, he bowed, really rather nicely, considering how impromptu the whole performance was.

“What is it, Eustace?” asked Mr. Meeson, sharply.

“Oh, nothing, uncle; nothing—­it can bide,” and, without waiting for an invitation, he took a chair, and sat down in such a position that he could see Miss Smithers without being seen of his uncle.

“I was saying, Miss Smithers, or rather, I was going to say,” went on the elder Meeson, “that, in short, I do not in the least understand what you can mean.  You will remember that you were paid a sum of fifty pounds for the copyright of ‘Jemima’s Vow.’”

“Great Heavens!” murmured Master Eustace, behind; “what a do!”

“At the time an alternative agreement, offering you seven per cent on the published price of the book, was submitted to you, and, had you accepted it, you would, doubtless, have realized a larger sum,” and Mr. Meeson contracted his hairy eyebrows and gazed at the poor girl in a way that was, to say the least, alarming.  But Augusta, though she felt sadly inclined to flee, still stood to her guns, for, to tell the truth, her need was very great.