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Maynard entered a bookseller's shop; he gave in his name, and the young man behind the counter civilly asked him to wait. He sat down, and mechanically turned over some volumes that lay beside him, but their contents swam before him. The lover may tremble while waiting for the mistress on whose lip hangs the heart's doom; but I doubt whether he feels equal anxiety with the young author waiting the fiat of his publisher. One figure after another emerged from the room behind, and at each step Walter Maynard felt a cold shudder steal over him, and then he started and coloured lest his agitation should be discovered; but the shop-boy was too used to such scenes to heed them. He never looked at the white lip tremulous with hope, which was rather fear; he noticed not the drops that started on the forehead.****
"At last Walter Maynard's turn came; he entered a low, dark back-parlour, whose close and murky atmosphere seemed ominous; a little man was seated on a very high stool writing at a desk before him."
*****
The publishing autocrat of the day is then characteristically pourtrayed. Reputation, feelings, or even chastisement, were as nothing weighed in the balance against his interest; life was to him only a long sum; his ledger was his Bible, and his religion, profit. For a little while he went on writing: this he did on principle.
"'Do you think the pamphlet will suit you?' said Maynard.
"'Why, no—no,—yes, perhaps—but we must talk a little about it. You reason too much,—all young people are so fond of reasons—as if reasons were of any use.'
L 3
