“There’s money in books, too,” Mr. Barnes declared with sudden inspiration. His prospective son-in-law turned towards him deferentially. “You are right, sir,” he admitted. “There is money in them. There’s money for those who write, and there’s money for those who sell. My occupation,” he continued, with a modest little cough, “brings me often into touch with publishers, travellers and clerks, so I am, as it were, behind the scenes to some extent. I can assure you,” he continued, looking from Mr. Barnes to his wife, and finally transfixing Mr. Adolphus--“I can assure you that the money paid by some firms of publishers to a few well-known authors--I will mention no names--as advances against royalties, is something stupendous!” “Ah!” Mr. Barnes murmured, solemnly shaking his head. “Marie Corelli, I expect, and that Hall Caine,” remarked young Adolphus. “Seems easy enough to write a book, too,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Why, I declare that some of those we get from the library--we subscribe to a library, Mr. Fitzgerald--are just as simple and straightforward that a child might have written them. No plot whatsoever, no murders or mysteries or anything of that sort--just stories about people like ourselves. I don’t see how they can pay people for writing stories about people just like those one meets every day!” “I always say,” Maud intervened, “that Spencer means to write a book some day. He has quite the literary air, hasn’t he, mother?” “Indeed he has!” Mrs. Barnes declared, with an appreciative glance at the gold-rimmed spectacles. Mr. Fitzgerald modestly disclaimed any literary aspirations. “The thing is a gift, after all,” he declared, generously. “I can keep accounts, and earn a fair salary at it, but if I attempted fiction I should soon be up a tree.” Mr. Barnes nodded his approval of such sentiments. “Every one to his trade, I say,” he remarked. “What sort of salaries do they pay now in the book trade?” he asked guilelessly. “Very fair,” Mr. Fitzgerald admitted candidly,--“very fair indeed.” “When I was your age,” Mr. Barnes said reflectively, “I was getting--let me see--forty-two shillings a week. Pretty good pay, too, for those days.” Mr. Fitzgerald admitted the fact. “Of course,” he said apologetically, “salaries are a little higher now all round. Mr. Howell has been very kind to me,--in fact I have had two raises this year. I am getting four pounds ten now.” “Four pounds ten per week?” Mrs. Barnes exclaimed, laying down her knife and fork. “Certainly,” Mr. Fitzgerald answered. “After Christmas, I have some reason to believe that it may be five pounds.” Mr. Barnes whistled softly, and looked at the young man with a new respect. “I told you that--Mr.--that Spencer was doing pretty well, Mother,” Maud simpered, looking down at her plate. “Any one to support?” her father asked, transferring a pickle from the fork to his mouth.