P. Ah, thank you. You are a woman of appreciation, but the world—bah the world—(Puts MSS. back on table.)
Miss B. What have you found there to cross you?
P. What have I found? The same old thing—rubbish from the four quarters of the earth; drivel, nine tenths of it absolute, unqualified idiocy.
Miss B. Why, Mr. Powers, you are unusually sarcastic to-day.
P. Haven’t I cause? Here I, the author of “A Romance of Two Castles,” am expected to read for Greathead & Wright, publishers, from two to five books per day—and oh such stuff. I’m expected to decide the fate of a book, subject to the final decision of Mr. Greathead. And I get a scoring if I reject a book that afterward succeeds with some other publisher.
Miss B. For instance, Gen. Radwell’s great book.
P. Miss Bodman, that isn’t a pleasant subject. How should I know that Gen. Radwell’s book would be the greatest hit for a half century? Mr. Greathead stormed, and I believe if it hadn’t been for Mr. Wright I should not to-day be delving in this mountain of verbiage as confidential reader and literary adviser for the great publishing house of Greathead & Wright. (Slams down MSS. on table beside Miss B.’s desk, R. Rings bell.) I’ll tell Figgs to return that, it is all rot!
Miss B. Why, Mr. Powers, you are positively using slang!
P. I beg pardon, Miss Bodman, but I just couldn’t help it this time. It is rot.
Miss B. Why, whose book is it?