"I thought he must be," said Louisiana, with a sigh of relief. "You are, you know."
"Am I?" returned Olivia. "Thank you. But I am not an author—at least,"—she added, guiltily, "nothing I have written has ever been published."
"Oh, why not?" exclaimed Louisiana.
"Why not?" she repeated, dubiously and thoughtfully. And then, knitting her brows, she said, "I don't know why not."
"I am sure if you have ever written anything, it ought to have been published," protested her adorer.
"I thought so," said Miss Ferrol. "But—but they didn't."
"They?" echoed Louisiana. "Who are 'they?'"
"The editors," she replied, in a rather gloomy manner. "There is a great deal of wire-pulling, and favoritism, and—even envy and malice, of which those outside know nothing. You wouldn't understand it if I should tell you about it."
For a few moments she wore quite a fell expression, and gloom reigned. She gave her head a little shake.
"They regret it afterward," she remarked,—"frequently."