Again that thin, erratic smile on Mr. Potts’ face. “You did see ‘that,’ Miss Caswell; please change it to ‘than.’ Had it gone to print it would have been bad, but, as we’ve caught it, there’s no harm done. There was never a book printed that did not have some sort of an error in it. Mr. Smythe, a few years ago, read the proofs of one himself. He boasted that it was perfect and that he would give a hundred pounds to any one who found an error in it. It turned out to be such a good joke on himself that he told it, but I don’t believe anybody got the hundred pounds.”
“Did he find the mistake himself?” Miss Caswell asked.
“Yes, he went into a book-shop, took up the book, and was going to tell the proprietor that he would give him a hundred pounds if he could find an error in it, when his eye lit on a colon that ought to have been a comma. He did not brag so much after that and has never read the proofs of another book since.”
Mr. Potts walked away and Miss Caswell resumed her work. She had before her a large pile of proofs that must be in the printer’s hands early the next morning, and it was nearly an hour beyond the appointed time for leaving when she arose from her table and made her way homeward.
“Why, where in the world have you been, Mrs. Glynne?” exclaimed Mrs. Liloquist, the landlady, as she opened the door to admit “Miss Caswell.”
“Has my husband got home?”
“Oh, yes, he has been here nearly an hour and has been downstairs at least six times to ask where you were. Now, how could he expect me to know where you were?”
“It was very unreasonable in him,” said Mrs. Glynne, laughing, “but, you know, men are all unreasonable.”
“What’s the matter, Clarence?” she cried, as she burst into the room.
Her husband, Mr. Clarence Glynne, was sitting by the window, but arose quickly and greeted his wife with an embrace and a kiss.