The next morning Mortimer bethought himself of his "Romance," and directed his steps toward the sanctum of Mr. Hardwill.
He found that gentleman talking with three new geniuses in pantelets, who were attempting to convince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to "bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which the authoress was holding in her hand with a tenderness that was touching to behold.
When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his hand to Mortimer.
"Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white teeth. "You didn't wish to appear anxious about your book; I was on the point of sending for you. You were to have called on me three days since. Well, sir, I like the story."
Mortimer bowed.
"Did you read it all, sir?"
"I? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. "I never look at anything but the size of the manuscript."
"Then you buy by the weight," said Mortimer, smiling.
"Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages. As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too heavy; but yours is not, my reader says."
"Your reader, sir?"