Mr. Snyder sniffed the air yet again, and looked at the fire inquisitively, still sniffing. 'There's only one price for novels, six-shillings,' Mr. Snyder proceeded. 'The public likes six shillings' worth of quality. But it absolutely insists on six shillings' worth of quantity, and doesn't object to more. What can I do with this?' he went on, picking up _Love in Babylon_ and weighing it as in a balance. 'What _can_ I do with a thing like this?' 'If Carlyle came to Kenilworth Mansions!' Henry speculated. At the same time Mr. Snyder's epigrammatic remarks impressed him. He saw the art of Richardson and Balzac in an entirely new aspect. It was as though he had walked round the house of literature, and peeped in at the backdoor. Mr. Snyder suddenly put _Love in Babylon_ to his nose. 'Oh, it's _that_!' he murmured, enlightened. Henry had to narrate the disaster of the onion-cart, at which Mr. Snyder was immensely amused. 'Good!' he ejaculated. 'Good! By the way, might send it to Onions Winter. Know Onions Winter? No? He's always called Spring Onions in the trade. Pushing man. What a joke it would be!' Mr. Snyder roared with laughter. 'But seriously, Winter might----' Just then Goldenhair entered the room with a slip of paper, and Mr. Snyder begged to be excused a moment. During his absence Henry reflected upon the singularly unbusinesslike nature of the conversation, and decided that it would be well to import a little business into it. 'I'm called away,' said Mr. Snyder, re-entering. 'I must go, too,' said Henry. 'May I ask, Mr. Snyder, what are your terms for arranging publication?' 'Ten per cent.,' said Mr. Snyder succinctly. 'On gross receipts. Generally, to unknown men, I charge a preliminary fee, but, of course, with you----' 'Ten per cent.?' Henry inquired. 'Ten per cent.,' repeated Mr. Snyder. 'Does that mean--ten per cent.?' Henry demanded, dazed. Mr. Snyder nodded. 'But do you mean to say,' said the author of _Love in Babylon_ impressively, 'that if a book of mine makes a profit of ten thousand pounds, you'll take a thousand pounds just for getting it published?' 'It comes to that,' Mr. Snyder admitted. 'Oh!' cried Henry, aghast, astounded. 'A thousand pounds!' And he kept saying: 'A thousand pounds! A thousand pounds!' He saw now where the Turkey carpets and the photogravures and the Teofani cigarettes came from. 'A thousand pounds!' Mr. Snyder stuck the revolver into a drawer. 'I'll think it over,' said Henry discreetly. 'How long shall you be in America?' 'Oh, about a couple of months!' And Mr. Snyder smiled brightly. Henry could not find a satisfactory explanation of the man's eternal jollity. 'Well, I'll think it over,' he said once more, very courteously. 'And I'm much obliged to you for giving me an interview.' And he took up _Love in Babylon_ and departed. It appeared to have been a futile and ludicrous encounter. CHAPTER XI SATIN