“I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher,” he said, conventionally; then, with a change to informality, “I'm rather mystified to know why Mr. Rogers, or any editor, for that matter, should offer work to me. I never had any offered me before.”
“Oh, but I've seen some of your work,” contradicted Larcher. “The illustrations to a story called 'A Heart in Peril.'”
“That wasn't offered me; I begged for it,” said Davenport, quietly.
“Well, in any case, it was seen and admired, and consequently you were recommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to illustrate this stuff of mine,” and Larcher brought forth the typewritten manuscript from under his coat.
“It's so unprecedented,” resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflective way of speaking. “I can scarcely help thinking there must be some mistake.”
“But you are the Murray Davenport that illustrated the 'Heart in Peril' story?”
“Yes; I'm the only Murray Davenport I know of; but an offer of work to me—”
“Oh, there's nothing extraordinary about that. Editors often seek out new illustrators they hear of.”
“Oh, I know all about that. You don't quite understand. I say, an offer to me—an offer unsolicited, unsought, coming like money found, like a gift from the gods. Such a thing belongs to what is commonly called good luck. Now, good luck is a thing that never by any chance has fallen to me before; never from the beginning of things to the present. So, in spite of my senses, I'm naturally a bit incredulous in this case.” This was said with perfect seriousness, but without any feeling.
Larcher smiled. “Well, I hope your incredulity won't make you refuse to do the pictures.”