2. "Her Native Land" is a fine story. I can get it into a weekly literary paper that our house publishes. I know Jameson, the reader, will take it, especially if you would give him the right to dramatize it. He is hand and glove with all the theatre managers and has had several successes.
3. That story about the Duke, I want for our magazine. It is capital, and has enough meat in it to make a full-blown novel. All it wants is oysters, soup, fish, entrees, and a dessert prefixed to and joined on to the solid roast and game which the story as now written itself supplies.
In Witness Whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, this 24th day of February, 186—.
Leopold Ernst, Literary Critic.
Quincy remained all night with Leopold, sleeping on the bed lounge in the sitting-room. He was up at six o'clock the next morning, but found that his friend was also an early riser, for on entering the library he saw the latter seated at his desk regarding the pile of manuscript which Quincy had read to him.
Leopold looked up with a peculiar expression on his face.
"What's the matter," asked Quincy, "changing your mind?"
"No," said Leopold, "I never do that, it would spoil my value as a reader if I did. My decisions are as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and are regarded by literary aspirants as being quite as severe as the statutes of Draco; but the fact is, Quincy, you and your protégé—you see I consider you equally culpable—have neglected to put any real name or pseudonym to these interesting stories. Of course I can affix the name of the most popular author that the world has ever known,—Mr. Anonymous,—but you two probably have some pet name that you wish immortalized."
"By George!" cried Quincy, "we did forget that. I will talk it over with her, and send you the nom de plume by mail.