little society of the ship—­which was, after all a very fair example of all society in miniature—­fell away from this publishing Prince, and not even the jingling of his money-bags could lure it back.  He the great, the practically omnipotent, the owner of two millions, and the hard master of hundreds upon whose toil he battened, was practically cut.  Even the clerk, who was going out on a chance of getting a place in a New Zealand bank, would have nothing to say to him.  And what is more, he felt it more even than an ordinary individual would have done.  He, the “Printer-devil,” as poor little Jeannie used to call him, he to be slighted and flouted by a pack of people whom he could buy up three times over, and all on account of a wretched authoress—­an authoress, if you please!  It made Mr. Meeson very wild—­a state of affairs which was brought to a climax when one morning Lord Holmhurst, who had for several days been showing a growing dislike to his society, actually almost cut him dead; that is, he did not notice his outstretched hand, and passed him with a slight bow.

“Never mind, my Lord—­never mind!” muttered Mr. Meeson after that somewhat pompous but amiable nobleman’s retreating form.  “We’ll see if I can’t come square with you.  I’m a dog who can pull a string or two in the English press, I am!  Those who have the money and have got a hold of people, so that they must write what they tell them, ain’t people to be cut by any Colonial Governor, my Lord!” And in his anger he fairly shook his fist at the unconscious Peer.

“Seem to be a little out of temper, Mr. Meeson,” said a voice at his elbow, the owner of which was a big young man with hard but kindly features and a large moustache.  “What has the Governor been doing to you?”

“Doing, Mr. Tombey?  He’s been cutting me, that’s all—­me, Meeson!—­cutting me as dead as offal, or something like it.  I held out my hand and he looked right over it, and marched by.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Tombey, who was a wealthy New Zealand landowner; “and now, why do you suppose he did that?”

“Why?  I’ll tell you why.  It’s all about that girl.”

“Miss Smithers, do you mean?” said Tombey the big, with a curious flash of his deep-set eyes.

“Yes, Miss Smithers.  She wrote a book, and I bought the book for fifty pounds, and stuck a clause in that she should give me the right to publish anything she wrote for five years at a price—­a common sort of thing enough in one way and another, when you are dealing with some idiot who don’t know any better.  Well, as it happened this book sold like wild-fire; and, in time the young lady comes to me and wants more money, wants to get out of the hanging clause in the agreement, wants everything, like a female Oliver Twist; and when I say, ‘No, you don’t,’ loses her temper, and makes a scene.  And it turns out that what she wanted the money for was to take a sick sister, or cousin, or aunt, or someone, out of England; and when she could not do it, and the relation died, then she emigrates, and goes and tells the people on board ship that it is all my fault.”