"How do you do, Miss Aylmer?" he said, coming up in his quick way, and shaking hands with her. "I am very pleased to see you. Will you come with me now, as I should like to introduce you to Mr. Anderson?"
They left the waiting-room together, went up some broad stairs, and entered a very spacious apartment on the first floor. Here an elderly man, of tall presence, with grey hair and a hooked nose, was waiting to receive them. He stood up when Florence appeared, bowed to her, and then held out his hand.
"Will you seat yourself, Miss Aylmer?" he said.
Florence did so. Mr. Anderson stood on the hearth and looked her all over. He had a keen, hawk-like glance, and his scrutiny was very penetrating. Florence found herself colouring under his gaze. She had been full of sangfroid and almost indifference when she entered the office, but now once again that terrible, overpowering sense of guilt was visiting her.
Mr. Anderson was a Scotchman to the backbone, and a man of very few words.
"I read your story," he said; "it is sharp and to the point. You have a nice style and an original way of putting things. I accepted your story for the Argonaut; it may not appear for some months, but it will certainly be published before the end of the year. We had better now arrange terms. What do you think your manuscript worth?"
"Nothing at all," was Florence's unguarded answer.
This was so unexpected that both Franks and the editor smiled.
"You are a very young writer indeed," said Mr. Anderson. "You will soon learn to appraise your wares at their true value. As this is your first effort I will pay you two guineas a thousand words. There are, I think, from five to six thousand words in the manuscript. You will receive a cheque therefore, say, for twelve guineas on the day of publication."
Florence gave a short gasp.