“You can’t do two things properly together,” was the reply; “nobody can; for it’s all fudge about Cæsar’s reading and dictating at the same time. What I’ve got to tell you is more important than a carpet shoe.” Smiling at his pertinacity, Rose, not having a particle of obstinacy in her disposition, put away her work, and demurely crossing her hands before her, like a good child saying its lessons, awaited her tyrant’s orders. That her attitude was not lost upon Frere that gentleman made evident by catching Lewis’s eye and pointing backwards with his thumb, as much as to say, “There! do you see that?” then producing a note from his pocket, he coolly broke the seal, opened it, and handing it to Rose, muttered, “Read that.” The note ran as follows:-- “Mr. T. Bracy presents his compliments to Miss Arundel, and begs to enclose a note of introduction to Mr. Nonpareil, the publisher, as Mr. Frere agrees in thinking that the offer made by Mr. A--------, of B------ Street, for the copyright of her interesting tale was quite inadequate to its merits.” “How very kind of Mr. Bracy!” exclaimed Rose, handing the note to her brother, re re having quietly read it over her shoulder. “Lewis, I must ask you to be good enough to go with me to Mr. Nonpareil’s whenever you can spare the time.” “You needn’t trouble him,” returned Frere gruffly; “I mean to take you there myself; and as there’s never any good in putting things off, I vote we go this morning. What do you say?” “You are very kind,” replied Rose, smiling; “but really, now my brother is in town I need not encroach on your valuable time.” “Valuable fiddlestick!” was the courteous reply; “though, of course, everybody’s time is valuable, if people did but know how to employ it properly--which they never do. But you don’t suppose if I’d anything very particular in hand I should be dawdling here, do you? I’ve got to be at the Ornithological at four, and to call at Moore’s, the bird-stuffer’s, first; but I can look in there on our way to Nonpareil’s.” “Yes; but I’m sure Lewis----” began Rose in a deprecatory tone of voice. “Nonsense about Lewis!” was the surly rejoinder. “What do you imagine he knows about dealing with publishers?--they’re ‘kittle cattle to shoe behint,’ as a Scotchman would say. I’ve had dealings enough with ’em to find out that, I can tell you. As for Lewis, if he were to walk into one of their dens with his head up in the air, they’d take him for Lord Octavo Shallowpate, come to negotiate for another new novel, written with a paste-pot and scissors, and when they found he had not a handle to his name with which to shove his rubbish down the public throat, they’d kick him out of the shop again.” “Then you really think I look as stupid as a literary lord, eh, Frere?” inquired Lewis. “Well, that’s too strong a term, perhaps,” answered Frere reflectively; “but you don’t look like a man of business, at all events.”