“I could not afford to wait for the seven per cent, Mr. Meeson,” she said humbly.

“Oh, ye gods! seven per cent, when he makes about forty-five!” murmured Eustace, in the background.

“Possibly, Miss Smithers; possibly;” went on the great man.  “You must really forgive me if I am not acquainted with the exact condition of your private affairs.  I am, however, aware from experience that the money matters of most writing people are a little embarrassed.”

Augusta winced, and Mr. Meeson, rising heavily from his chair, went to a large safe which stood near, and extracted from it a bundle of agreements.  These he glanced at one by one till he found what he was looking for.

“Here is the agreement,” he said; “let me see? ah, I thought so—­copyright fifty pounds, half proceeds of rights of translation, and a clause binding you to offer any future work you may produce during the next five years to our house on the seven per cent agreement, or a sum not exceeding one hundred pounds for the copyright.  Now, Miss Smithers, what have you to say?  You signed this paper of your own free will.  It so happens that we have made a large profit on your book:  indeed, I don’t mind telling you that we have got as much as we gave you back from America for the sale of the American rights; but that is no ground for your coming to ask for more money than you agreed to accept.  I never heard of such a thing in the whole course of my professional experience; never!” and he paused, and once more eyed her sternly.

“At any rate, there ought to be something to come to me from the rights of translation—­I saw in the paper that the book was to be translated into French and German,” said Augusta, faintly.

“Oh! yes, no doubt—­Eustace, oblige me by touching the bell.”

The young gentleman did so, and a tall, melancholy-looking clerk appeared.

“No. 18,” snarled Mr. Meeson, in the tone of peculiar amiability that he reserved for his employee’s, “make out the translation account of ‘Jemima’s Vow,’ and fill up a cheque of balance due to the author.”

No. 18 vanished like a thin, unhappy ghost, and Mr. Meeson once more addressed the girl before him.  “If you want money, Miss Smithers,” he said, “you had better write us another book.  I am not going to deny that your work is good work—­a little too deep, and not quite orthodox enough, perhaps; but still good.  I tested it myself, when it came to hand—­which is a thing I don’t often do—­and saw it was good selling quality, and you see I didn’t make a mistake.  I believe ‘Jemima’s Vow’ will sell twenty thousand without stopping—­here’s the account.”

As he spoke the spectre-like clerk put down a neatly-ruled bit of paper and an unsigned cheque on the desk before his employer, and then smiled a shadowy smile and vanished.

Mr. Meeson glanced through the account, signed the cheque, and handed it, together with the account to Augusta, who proceeded to read it.  It ran thus:—­