“Excuse me, madam, but to avoid all misunderstanding, I should tell you frankly from the first that we never publish fiction——”
“No, of course not,” Constance broke in. “Let me tell my story.”
Johnson bowed his head and assumed an attitude of attention.
“A friend of yours,” the young girl continued, “has written this book. His name is Mr. George Winton Wood——”
“I know him very well.” Johnson wondered why George had not come himself, and wondered especially how he happened to dispose of so young and beautiful an ambassadress.
“Yes—he has often told me about you,” said Constance. “Very well. He has written this novel, and I have read it. He thinks it is not worth publishing, and I think it is. I want to ask a great favour of you. Will you read it yourself?”
The pale young man hesitated. He was intensely conscientious, and he feared there was something queer about the business.
“Pardon me,” he said, “does Mr. Wood know that you have brought it to me?”
“No indeed! I would not have him know it for the world!”
“Then I would rather not——”