'Ah yes. Very interesting!' observed Mr. Winter without a smile. 'Very curious! We might make a par out of that. Onions--onions. The public likes these coincidences. Well, as I tell you, I shouldn't have thought twice about it if it hadn't been for this----' (Sniff, sniff.) 'Then I happened to glance at the title, and the title attracted me. I must admit that the title attracted me. You have hit on a very pretty title, Mr. Knight, a very pretty title indeed. I took your book home and read it myself, Mr. Knight. I didn't send it to any of my readers. Not a soul in this office has read it except me. I'm a bit superstitious, you know. We all are--everyone is, when it comes to the point. And that Onions--onions! And then the pretty title! I like your book, Mr. Knight. I tell you candidly, I like it. It's graceful and touching, and original. It's got atmosphere. It's got that indefinable something--_je ne sais quoi_--that we publishers are always searching for. Of course it's crude--very crude in places. It might be improved. What do you want for it, Mr. Knight? What are you asking?' Mr. Onions Winter rose and walked to the window in order, apparently, to drink his fill of the statue of Shakspere in the middle of the square. 'I don't know,' said Henry, overjoyed but none the less perplexed. 'I have not considered the question of price.' 'Will you take twenty-five pounds cash down for it--lock, stock, and barrel? You know it's very short. In fact, I'm just about the only publisher in London who would be likely to deal with it.' Henry kept silence. 'Eh?' demanded Mr. Onions Winter, still perusing the Shaksperean forehead. 'Cash down. Will you take it?' 'No, I won't, thank you,' said Henry. 'Then what will you take?' 'I'll take a hundred.' 'My dear young man!' Mr. Onions Winter turned suddenly to reason blandly with Henry. 'Are you aware that that means five pounds a thousand words? Many authors of established reputation would be glad to receive as much. No, I should like to publish your book, but I am neither a philanthropist nor a millionaire.' 'What I should really prefer,' said Henry, 'would be so much on every copy sold.' 'Ah! A royalty?' 'Yes. A royalty. I think that is fairer to both parties,' said Henry judicially. 'So you'd prefer a royalty,' Mr. Onions Winter addressed Shakspere again. 'Well. Let me begin by telling you that first books by new authors never pay expenses. Never! Never! I always lose money on them. But you believe in your book? You believe in it, don't you?' He faced Henry once more. 'Yes,' said Henry. 'Then, you must have the courage of your convictions. I will give you a royalty of three halfpence in the shilling on every copy after the first five thousand. Thus, if it succeeds, you will share in the profit. If it fails, my loss will be the less. That's fair, isn't it?' It seemed fair to Henry. But he was not Sir George's private secretary for nothing.