"No, precisely, then of course they would not come in The London Pride set which still has a vacancy. Perhaps The Cowslip? What does the reader say? Um, yes, pastoral. Precisely! Well, then why not let us decide that your poems shall be Number Three in The Cowslip set. Capital! I think you'd be wise to choose the Covent Garden series in paper. The cost of publication is really less in that series, and I have always chosen my poets so carefully that I can be sure the Press will pay attention to--er neophytes. That is a great advantage for a young writer, as you no doubt realize without my telling you?" "The cost?" echoed Guy in a puzzled voice. "It will run you in for about £30--as a guarantee of course. The terms I suggest are simply a written agreement that you will guarantee £30 toward the cost. Your royalty to be ten per cent on the first thousand, twelve and a half on the next thousand and fifteen over two thousand. We might fairly say that in the event of selling a thousand you would have nothing to pay, but of course if you only sell twenty or thirty, you will have to--er--pay for your piping." "And when should I have to produce this £30?" Guy asked. "Well, I might ask for a cheque to be placed to my account on the day of publication; and then of course I should send in a written statement twice a year with the usual three months' margin for settlement." "So that supposing my book came out in March?" Guy enquired. "By the following November I should hope to have the pleasure of sending you back your £30 and a cheque on account of royalties," said the publisher briskly. "They don't seem very good terms somehow," said Guy. Mr. Worrall shrugged his shoulders, and his conical head grew more conical. "You forget the advantage of being in the Covent Garden series of modern poets. However, don't, pray do not, entrust your manuscript to my pilotage unless you are perfectly satisfied. I have a good many poems to consider, you know." "May I write within a week or so and give you my decision?" Guy asked. "Naturally." "Well, good-bye." "Good-bye, Mr. Hazlewood. Clever fellow, isn't he?" Guy had given a farewell glance at Max Beerbohm's caricature. "Very clever," the poet fervently agreed.