her literary fate, frightened her. Her breath came flying; her breast seemed alive with birds that were beating their wings around her heart. She could scarcely see for a film of fear and excitement veiling her sight. Through the mist azure eyes, never meant to be so troubled, looked piteously at him. She had sought the director; the business mogul; the great John Coverton; the machine. The man she had not considered, as yet had not seen.
"This a novelist," he was saying, "this exquisite being." Cruelly, for the pleasure of hearing her speak and of silently observing her, he let her plead on.
"I can't tell you what it means to me to have my book thus summarily refused; I don't want to dwell on what it means to me!" She rose in her agitation. Crueller than the beating birds that gave evidence of their existence in her quick little sighs was Coverton himself, who did not stop her words.
"Unless Mr. Harswater or yourself tells me Murges & Company can't publish it, I shall not be content. I shall not feel that I have had my chance. They tell me you have brought this firm from ruin, that you have superbly carved your own career. I beg a chance—of you who know so well what 'chance' means."
Here, as she paused, her curtained vision cleared. She saw him distinctly. His brows' splendid arch—black, heavy; his strong features; his magnetic eyes—power was written on his face, ambition; these things she saw, acknowledged; and well for her plea that he was so late revealed, for she could never have spoked a further word. She saw more. He was looking at her, and it was not Alicia Brookfield, author of "The Primrose Way," he was so deeply considering—it was the woman. She ceased to speak.
"Do you like your book?" he asked shortly.
She was subtle. A moment before she would have replied with no difficulty, now she wanted to seize the manuscript and escape with it. Before she could answer further than by a gesture Coverton said,—
"I will take your novel."
Fear had left her with the dispersion of the mist of excitement. Already, true woman that she was, she saw the power was now in her hands.
"Oh, I can't accept that!" she said. "I didn't come to ask whole-sale charity. I want Mr. Harswater or yourself to read it."
He smiled. "You have nothing whatever to do with it now." He touched a bell as he spoke.
He informed the gentleman who entered in response to his summons: "I have just bought Miss Brookfield's book. It is called 'The Primrose Way.' Will you take the author to your office, arrange for the publication, and pay her in advance whatever royalty she may name?"
