"You would if you were a woman. But, contrariwise, what I like almost better is keepin' shop--postin' up ledgers, makin' out bills, _to account rendered, second application, which doubtless has escaped your notice_, and all that sort of thing. I saw a shop in Plymouth once with young women by the dozen sittin' at desks, and when they pulled a string little balls came rollin' towards them over on their heads like the stars in heaven, all full of cash; and they'd open one o' these balls and hand you out your change just as calm and scornful as if they were angels and you the dirt beneath their feet. You can't think how I longed to be one o' them and behave like that. But the two things didn't seem to go together." "What two things?" "Why, sittin' at a desk like that and sittin' on a sofa and sayin' 'How d'e do, my dear? It's _so_ good of you to call in this dreadful weather, especially as you have to hire. . . .' But now," said Fancy, clasping her hands, "I see my way: that is, if you're really a genius. You shall write your books and I'll sell them. '_Mr and Mrs Palmerston Burt, Author and_--what's the word?--pub--publicans--no, publisher; _Author and Publisher_.' It's quite the highest class of business: and if any one tried to patronise me I could always explain that I just did it to help, you bein' a child in matters of business. Geniuses are mostly like that." "Are they?" "Yes, that's another of their drawbacks. And," continued Fancy, "you'd be a celebrity of course, which means that we should be in the magazines, with pictures--_A Corner of the Library_, and _The Rose-garden, looking West, and Mrs Palmerston Burt is not above playing with the Baby_, and you with your favourite dog--for we'd have both, by that time. Oh, Pammy, where is the book?" "Upstairs, mostly, but I got a couple o' chapters upon me--" Palmerston tapped his breast-pocket--"If you really mean as you'd like--" He hesitated, his colour changing from red to white. Here, on the point of proving it, the poor boy feared his fate too much. But Fancy insisted. They escaped together to Captain Hunken's garden; and there, in the summer-house--by this time almost in twilight--he showed her the precious manuscript. It was written (like many another first effort of genius) on very various scraps of paper, the most of which had previously enwrapped groceries. "And to think," breathed Fancy, recognising some of Mr Rogers's trade wrappers, "that maybe I've seen dad doin' up those very parcels, and never guessed--well, go on! Read it to me." "I--I don't read at all well," faltered Palmerston. She tapped her foot. "I don't care how bad you read so long as you don't keep me waitin' a moment longer." "This is Chapter Nine. . . . If you like, of course, I could start by tellin' you what the other chapters are about--" "_Please_ don't talk any more, but read!"