“You publishers are awful cowards,” said Emmet, in his drawling tones; “you are so afraid of anything new that all authors you introduce are branded Prophets of the Commonplace.” Mr. Langley’s blonde, pleasant little face took a warmer hue, and he answered somewhat testily: “The publisher was brave, indeed, who presented you to the public, Mr. Emmet.” In spite of the general laugh, Emmet replied imperturbably: “The best advertisement I had, and the only one which I myself inserted, was that ‘Mrs. Bleeker’ had been refused by every conservative house in New York. My reward is that I have the reputation instead of the firm.” “No; the firm hasn’t any left—that’s a fact,” retorted Mr. Langley; and Emmet turned to Helen with a pout on his boyish face. “Do my books shock you?” he asked her. Helen smiled. “No, they do not,” she said, briefly. “I quite adore them. I don’t always acknowledge having read them, but I don’t mind telling you, considering that you are the author.” “Oh, some women assure me that nothing would induce them to read my books. I am glad you have the courage of your opinions. I scorn women who have not, and I will not talk to a girl unless I can do so as freely as to a man.” “Oh, I am not a prude,” said Helen, lightly. “I only draw the line at positive indecency, and you are quite vague enough. But do you always talk to men on improper subjects?” “Oh—no; I merely meant that I like to feel the same lack of restraint with women as with men. It is a bore to call up every thought for inspection before you utter it.” “Yes,” said Helen; “you wouldn’t talk at all, you would only inspect.” “Speaking of mysterious disappearances,” broke in Embury’s voice, “what has become of that girl who used to give us such bucketfuls of soulful lava?—the one who signed herself ‘Quirus’?” Mr. Overton laughed, and much to Hermia’s relief every one turned to him. “She brought me that poem I published, herself, and I came near laughing outright once or twice. I have seen few plainer women; there was such a general dinginess about her. At the same time there was a certain magnetism which, I imagine, would have been pronounced had she been a stronger woman. But I should not be surprised to hear that she had died of consumption.” “Is it possible?” said Embury. “Her work was strong, however. Why didn’t you take her in hand and bring her up in the way she should go?”