“Yes. It’s pretty,” criticised the sub-editor. “Worth printing, perhaps, not worth paying for.”
“Not merely a—a nominal sum, sufficient to distinguish it from the work of the amateur?”
Tommy pursed her lips. “Poetry is quite a drug in the market. We can get as much as we want of it for nothing.”
“Say half a crown,” suggested the stranger.
Tommy shot a swift glance across the desk, and for the first time saw the whole of him. He was clad in a threadbare, long, brown ulster—long, that is, it would have been upon an ordinary man, but the stranger happening to be remarkably tall, it appeared on him ridiculously short, reaching only to his knees. Round his neck and tucked into his waistcoat, thus completely hiding the shirt and collar he may have been wearing or may not, was carefully arranged a blue silk muffler. His hands, which were bare, looked blue and cold. Yet the black frock-coat and waistcoat and French grey trousers bore the unmistakable cut of a first-class tailor and fitted him to perfection. His hat, which he had rested on the desk, shone resplendent, and the handle of his silk umbrella was an eagle’s head in gold, with two small rubies for the eyes.
“You can leave it if you like,” consented Tommy. “I’ll speak to the editor about it when he returns.”
“You won’t forget it?” urged the stranger.
“No,” answered Tommy. “I shall not forget it.”
Her black eyes were fixed upon the stranger without her being aware of it. She had dropped unconsciously into her “stocktaking” attitude.
“Thank you very much,” said the stranger. “I will call again to-morrow.”