"That is just what I want," said the girl, with ill-concealed impatience.
"You are not dependent upon your exertions, I suppose, for a living?"
Millicent shook her head, almost sorry at the moment that she could not reply in the affirmative.
"Then—I should give up the idea of being an authoress."
This was very unpalatable medicine, and the critic realized it as he looked at the sombre face before him.
"Is your rejection of my story based at all," asked Miss Fern, after a pause, "on the—boldness of its subject?"
Mr. Gouger smiled again.
"We publish the works of Hall Caine and George Moore," he said. "I should not consider your story overbold, if there was nothing else against it. It is a wonder to me, and always will be, why such young girls as you choose risqué themes, but if the work is well done the public will pay for it."
There was a slight blush on Miss Fern's face, partly at the insinuation and partly at the adverse criticism that had crept thoughtlessly into the sentence.
"For my part," she explained, "I wanted to write something that would attract attention—that would put my name prominently before the public and keep it there. The girls I read it to thought the scenes just lovely, though some said perhaps their mothers would not feel that way. And I told them that the mothers of to-day were very old-fashioned, and that the public taste was changing rapidly. If the story is too bold, there are things I could cut out of it, but if you say that would make no difference, I would rather let them stand. I intend to try some other concern before I give up."