"But now that you have left it yourself,—if you would have the 'Wheel of Fortune' done for me,—really well done!"
"The 'Wheel of Fortune'!"
"That is the name of my novel," said Lady Carbury, putting her hand softly upon the manuscript. "Just at this moment it would be the making of a fortune for me! And, oh, Mr. Alf, if you could but know how I want such assistance!"
"I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, Lady Carbury."
"Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make it certain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know. I have taken so much pains with it."
"Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits."
"Don't say that, Mr. Alf. The 'Evening Pulpit' is like,—oh, it is like,—like,—like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified before it? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it done. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once,—that is if it were done really con amore." Mr. Alf looked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. "The paper stands so high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is asking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives."
"I do not think that it has ever been done by the 'Evening Pulpit.'"
"I have seen books praised."
"Of course you have."