Harviss, stiffening a little, examined the tip of his cigar.  “My dear Linyard,” he said at length, “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

The Professor succumbed to a fresh access, from the vortex of which he managed to fling out—­“But that’s the very core of the joke!”

Harviss looked at him resignedly.  “What is?”

“Why, your not seeing—­your not understanding—­”

“Not understanding what?"

“Why, what the book is meant to be.”  His laughter subsided again and he sat gazing thoughtfully at the publisher.  “Unless it means,” he wound up, “that I’ve over-shot the mark.”

“If I am the mark, you certainly have,” said Harviss, with a glance at the clock.

The Professor caught the glance and interpreted it.  “The book is a skit,” he said, rising.

The other stared.  “A skit?  It’s not serious, you mean?”

“Not to me—­but it seems you’ve taken it so.”

“You never told me—­” began the publisher in a ruffled tone.

“No, I never told you,” said the Professor.

Harviss sat staring at the manuscript between them.  “I don’t pretend to be up in such recondite forms of humour,” he said, still stiffly.  “Of course you address yourself to a very small class of readers.”

“Oh, infinitely small,” admitted the Professor, extending his hand toward the manuscript.

Harviss appeared to be pursuing his own train of thought.  “That is,” he continued, “if you insist on an ironical interpretation.”

“If I insist on it—­what do you mean?”

The publisher smiled faintly.  “Well—­isn’t the book susceptible of another?  If I read it without seeing—­”

“Well?” murmured the other, fascinated.—­“why shouldn’t the rest of the world?” declared Harviss boldly.  “I represent the Average Reader—­that’s my business, that’s what I’ve been training myself to do for the last twenty years.  It’s a mission like another—­the thing is to do it thoroughly; not to cheat and compromise.  I know fellows who are publishers in business hours and dilettantes the rest of the time.  Well, they never succeed:  convictions are just as necessary in business as in religion.  But that’s not the point—­I was going to say that if you’ll let me handle this book as a genuine thing I’ll guarantee to make it go.”

The Professor stood motionless, his hand still on the manuscript.

“A genuine thing?” he echoed.

“A serious piece of work—­the expression of your convictions.  I tell you there’s nothing the public likes as much as convictions—­they’ll always follow a man who believes in his own ideas.  And this book is just on the line of popular interest.  You’ve got hold of a big thing.  It’s full of hope and enthusiasm:  it’s written in the religious key.  There are passages in it that would do splendidly in a Birthday Book—­things that popular preachers would quote in their sermons.  If you’d wanted to catch a big public you couldn’t have gone about it in a better way.  The thing’s perfect for my purpose—­I wouldn’t let you alter a word of it.  It’ll sell like a popular novel if you’ll let me handle it in the right way.”