She waited some time before it was brought to her. Then she pretended to look through it carefully, examining the headings of the papers that were collected in it.
“Is it worth reading?” she asked carelessly.
“Excellent, Miss Fearing,” answered the grey-haired professional bookseller. He had known Constance since she had been a mere child with a passion for Mr. Walter Crane’s picture-books. “Excellent,” he repeated, emphatically. “A little dry perhaps, but truly excellent.”
“Has it been a success, do you know?”
“Yes, I know, Miss Fearing,” answered Mr. Popples, with a meaning smile. “I know very well. I happen to know that it did not pay for the printing.”
“Did the author not even get ten per cent on the advertised retail price?” Constance inquired.
Mr. Popples stared at her for a moment, evidently wondering where she had picked up the phrase. He immediately suspected her of having perpetrated a literary misdeed in one volume.
“No, Miss Fearing. I happen to know that Mr. Johnson did not get ten per cent on the advertised retail price of his book; in point of fact, he got nothing at all for it, excepting a number of very flattering notices. But excuse me, Miss Fearing, if you were thinking of venturing upon publishing anything——” His voice dropped to a confidential pitch.
“I?” exclaimed Constance.
“Well, Miss Fearing, it could be done very discreetly, you know. Just a little volume of sweet verse? Is that it, Miss Fearing? Now, you know, that kind of thing would have a run in society, and if you would like to put it into my hands, I know a publisher——”