Obediently the driver drew up opposite the doorway of a firm of international fame, and Theodora, secure in the consciousness of her new gown and the unwonted luxury of the carriage and Patrick, entered the store. It was a dreary day of a dull season, and with comparatively little trouble she found herself in a quiet office on the third floor of the building. Its occupant, a tall, thin man with iron-gray hair, looked up at her approach, and a slight expression of wonder came into his eyes as they rested on his girlish visitor.
"What can I do for you?" he asked courteously.
Theodora was breathing a little quickly, and the bright color came and went in her cheeks. All unconsciously, she was looking her very best.
"I came to ask you about publishing a book."
"Mm. Is it one you have written?"
"Yes."
There was a pause, slight, yet perceptible. Then the man asked,—
"What sort of a book is it?"
"It's a novel. Kind of a love story."
"How long is it?"