“And none of them would do better than that by the book? But of course you know. Have you ever published anything yourself? Forgive my ignorance——”
“I once published a volume of critical essays,” Johnson answered.
“What was the title? I must read it—please tell me.”
“It is not worth the trouble, I assure you. The title was that—Critical Essays by William Johnson.”
“Thank you, I will remember. And will you really do your very best for Mr. Wood’s book? Do you think it could be published in a fortnight?”
“A fortnight!” exclaimed Johnson, aghast at Constance’s ignorance. “Three months would be the shortest time possible.”
“Three months! Dear me, what a length of time!”
Johnson rapidly explained as well as he could the principal reasons why it takes longer to publish a book than to write one. He exchanged a few more words with Constance, promising to make every effort to push on the appearance of the novel, but advising her to expect no news whatever for several months. Then he took his leave.
Half an hour later Constance was at her bookseller’s.
“I want a book called Critical Essays, by William Johnson,” she said. “Have you got it, Mr. Popples?”