“Isn’t that cruel,” said Mrs. Puffle, “to work, and work, and work, and never get the wages which ought to be paid for it?”
“Perhaps there may be a good time coming,” said our editor. “Let us see whether we can get Messrs. X., Y., and Z. to publish this at their own expense, and with your name attached to it. Then, Miss de Montmorenci——”
“I suppose we had better tell him all,” said Josephine.
“Oh, yes; tell everything. I am sure he won’t be angry; he is so good-natured,” said Mrs. Puffle.
Mr. Brown looked first at one, and then at the other, feeling himself to be rather uncomfortable. What was there that remained to be told? He was good-natured, but he did not like being told of that virtue. “The name you have heard is not my name,” said the lady who had written the novel.
“Oh, indeed! I have heard Mrs. Puffle call you,—Polly.”
“My name is,—Maryanne.”
“It is a very good name,” said Mr. Brown,—“so good that I cannot quite understand why you should go out of your way to assume another.”
“It is Maryanne,—Puffle.”
“Oh;—Puffle!” said Mr. Brown.