“They are rather good; he has shown them to me. You might just glance through them,” suggested Frithiof. “I shall write a book some day on the sorrows of a music-publisher!” said Roy. “How many thousands of composers do you think there can be in this overcrowded country? No, I’ll not see the man; I’m in too bad a temper; but you can just bring in the songs, and I will look at them and talk to you at the same time.” Frithiof returned in a minute, carrying the neat manuscripts which meant so much to the composer and so little, alas! to the publisher. Roy glanced through the first. “The usual style of thing,” he said. “Moon, man, and maid, rill and hill, quarrel, kisses—all based on ‘So the Story Goes.’ I don’t think this is worth sending to the reader. What’s the other? Words by Swinburne: ‘If Love were what the Rose is.’ Yes, you are right; this one is original; I rather like that refrain. We will send it to Martino and see what he thinks of it. Tell Mr. Carruthers that he shall hear about it in a month or two. And take him back this moonlight affair. Don’t go yet; he can wait on tenter-hooks a little longer. Of course they have told me at home about all this fuss on Monday, and I want you to promise me one thing.” “What is that?” said Frithiof. “That you wont worry about this miserable five-pound note. That, if you ever think of it again, you will remember that my father and I both regard the accident as if it had never happened.” “Then you too take his view of the affair?” said Frithiof. “Yes, it seems to me the only reasonable one; but don’t let us talk of a thing that is blotted out and done away. It makes no difference whatever to me, and you must promise that you wont let it come between us.” “You are very good,” said Frithiof sadly; and, remembering the hopelessness of arguing with one who took this view of his trouble, he said no more, but went back to the poor composer, whose face lengthened when he saw that his hands were not empty, but brightened into radiant hope as Frithiof explained that one song would really have the rare privilege of being actually looked at. Being behind the scenes, he happened to know that the vast majority of songs sent to the firm remained for a few weeks in the house, and were then wrapped up again and returned without even being glanced at. His intervention had, at any rate, saved Mr. Carruthers from that hard fate. “And yet, poor fellow,” he reflected, “even if he does get his song published it is a hundred to one that it will fall flat and never do him any good at all; where one succeeds a thousand fail; that seems the law of the world, and I am one of the thousand. I wonder what is the use of it all!” Some lines that Donati had quoted to him returned to his mind: “Glorious it is to wear the crown Of a deserved and pure success; He that knows how to fail has won A crown whose luster is not less.”