“What do you say, Bill?” said the person addressed; “drawer full as usual, I suppose, isn’t it? more chaff than wheat, too, I’ll swear; don’t want any, ma’am; come now, Jo, let’s hear the rest of that story; shut the door, ma’am, if you please.”
“Are you the editor of the ‘Parental Guide’?” said Ruth, to a thin, cadaverous-looking gentleman, in a white neck-cloth, and green spectacles, whose editorial sanctum was not far from the office she had just left.
“I am.”
“Do you employ contributors for your paper?”
“Sometimes.”
“Shall I leave you this MS. for your inspection, sir?”
“Just as you please.”
“Have you a copy of your paper here, sir, from which I could judge what style of articles you prefer?”
At this, the gentleman addressed raised his eyes for the first time, wheeled his editorial arm-chair round, facing Ruth, and peering over his green spectacles, remarked:
“Our paper, madam, is most em-phat-i-cal-ly a paper devoted to the interests of religion; no frivolous jests, no love-sick ditties, no fashionable sentimentalism, finds a place in its columns. This is a serious world, madam, and it ill becomes those who are born to die, to go dancing through it. Josephus remarks that the Saviour of the world was never known to smile. I seldom smile. Are you a religious woman, madam?”