“You really think Mr. Wood has talent?” she asked, for the sake of hearing another word of praise.
“There is more talent in one of his pages than in the whole aggregate works of half a dozen ordinarily successful writers,” Johnson answered with emphasis.
“I am so glad you think so—so glad. And what is the first thing to be done in order to get this published? You see, I must ask your help, now that you have given your opinion.”
“Will you leave the matter in my hands, Miss Fearing?”
Constance hesitated. There was assuredly no one who would be more likely to do the proper thing in the matter, and yet she reflected that she knew nothing or next to nothing of the man before her, except from George’s praise of his intelligence.
“Suppose that a publisher accepts the book,” she said warily, “what will he give Mr. Wood for it?”
“Ten per cent on the advertised retail price,” Johnson answered promptly.
“Of every copy sold, I suppose,” said Constance, who had a remarkably good head for business. “That is not much, is it? And besides, how is one to know that the publisher is honest? One hears such dreadful stories about those people.”
Johnson laughed a little.
“Faith is the evidence of things unseen, supported by reasonable and punctual payments,” he said. “Publishers are not all Cretans, Miss Fearing. There be certain just men among them who have reputations to lose.”