Mr. Sellyer directed one of his shrewd glances at me. He knew I didn’t want to buy the book, and perhaps, like lesser people, he had his off moments of confidence.
He shook his head.
“A bad business,” he said. “The publishers have unloaded the thing on us, and we have to do what we can. They’re stuck with it, I understand, and they look to us to help them. They’re advertising it largely and may pull it off. Of course, there’s just a chance. One can’t tell. It’s just possible we may get the church people down on it and if so we’re all right. But short of that we’ll never make it. I imagine it’s perfectly rotten.”
“Haven’t you read it?” I asked.
“Dear me, no!” said the manager. His air was that of a milkman who is offered a glass of his own milk. “A pretty time I’d have if I tried to READ the new books. It’s quite enough to keep track of them without that.”
“But those people,” I went on, deeply perplexed, “who bought the book. Won’t they be disappointed?”
Mr. Sellyer shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said; “you see, they won’t READ it. They never do.”
“But at any rate,” I insisted, “your wife thought it a fine story.”
Mr. Sellyer smiled widely.
“I am not married, sir,” he said.