“That Monkey book,” I heard him murmur to his assistant, “is going to be a pretty stiff proposition.”
But he had no time for further speculation.
Another lady entered.
This time even to an eye less trained than Mr. Sellyer’s, the deep, expensive mourning and the pensive face proclaimed the sentimental widow.
“Something new in fiction,” repeated the manager, “yes, madam—here’s a charming thing—Golden Dreams”—he hung lovingly on the words—“a very sweet story, singularly sweet; in fact, madam, the critics are saying it is the sweetest thing that Mr. Slush has done.”
“Is it good?” said the lady. I began to realise that all customers asked this.
“A charming book,” said the manager. “It’s a love story—very simple and sweet, yet wonderfully charming. Indeed, the reviews say it’s the most charming book of the month. My wife was reading it aloud only last night. She could hardly read for tears.”
“I suppose it’s quite a safe book, is it?” asked the widow. “I want it for my little daughter.”
“Oh, quite safe,” said Mr. Sellyer, with an almost parental tone, “in fact, written quite in the old style, like the dear old books of the past—quite like”—here Mr. Sellyer paused with a certain slight haze of doubt visible in his eye—“like Dickens and Fielding and Sterne and so on. We sell a great many to the clergy, madam.”
The lady bought Golden Dreams, received it wrapped up in green enamelled paper, and passed out.