P. (Astonished at her manner.) He is out of the city, madam. Can’t I do something for you? Your business?
Susan. (With air of contempt for his position.) I don’t think you can. I called on very important business!
P. I am here to attend to business!
Susan. I can’t talk to clerks! I want to see one of the firm.
P. If it is an order for books, the counting room is just across the hall.
Susan. (With toss of head.) It isn’t an order. I am an author. Have a novel, “Winds that Sough in the Night,” 1,100 pages.
P. Madam, it is my business to take charge of manuscripts. I—
Susan. (Emphatically.) No, you don’t. I’ve heard of your ways. Nobody but the firm will read my book.
P. But that is impossible. Our plan—
Susan. Is to give manuscripts to some clerk to be fumbled over. As if a ten dollar clerk was the arbiter of literature; or may be you send it out to some society woman whose husband has failed in business, as if that had fitted her to decide anything.