“That is the truest of all,” said Josephine.
“Oughtn’t one to be paid when one has worked so very hard?” said Mrs. Puffle.
“Certainly one ought to be paid if it can be proved that one’s work is worth buying,” replied the sage mentor of literature.
“But isn’t it worth buying?” demanded Mrs. Puffle.
“I must say that I think that publishers do buy some that are worse,” observed Josephine.
Mr. Brown with words of wisdom explained to them as well as he was able the real facts of the case. It might be that that manuscript, over which the poor invalid had laboured for so many painful hours, would prove to be an invaluable treasure of art, destined to give delight to thousands of readers, and to be, when printed, a source of large profits to publishers, booksellers, and author. Or, again, it might be that, with all its undoubted merits,—and that there were such merits Mr. Brown was eager in acknowledging,—the novel would fail to make any way with the public. “A publisher,”—so said Mr. Brown,—“will hardly venture to pay you a sum of money down, when the risk of failure is so great.”
“But Polly has written ever so many things before,” said Mrs. Puffle.
“That counts for nothing,” said Miss de Montmorenci. “They were short pieces, and appeared without a name.”
“Were you paid for them?” asked Mr. Brown.
“I have never been paid a halfpenny for anything yet.”