"Mr. Linklater, sir?" he said in answer to the General; "I will see if he is in. Will you and the lady step in here?" We followed him into a stuffy room, ventilated only by a window opening on the outer office. The walls of the room were of muffled glass, and when the clerk had switched on the electric light and left us I was free to walk about and look at the books published by the firm which stood about on tables and shelves. Would mine ever be there, I wondered, as we waited! The General had taken off his hat and was mopping his brows with his handkerchief while he grumbled at the stuffiness of the place. It was stuffy--but I didn't mind it a bit. I thought I should love to be one of the people whose shadows I could see passing along the glass corridors--to breathe and smell books all day, to see famous authors, and handle proofs. Presently the clerk returned to us and asked us to follow him. We went up in a comfortable padded lift, which in itself was a delightful experience to me. Then the clerk opened the door, and we stepped out into a long corridor. He knocked at a door which stood a little open, and in answer to a "Come in" he ushered us across the threshold, and left us with a low bow. A tall, dusty, untidy man came to meet us, and greeted the General very warmly. I stood in the background and looked at him. His reddish-brown hair was sprinkled thickly with gray. He wore a very old coat, the lapels of which bore some traces of tobacco ash. He had a rough grayish-brown beard and bright shrewd hazel eyes. He seemed as if he were always running his hands through his hair in desperation, and as if he had slept in his clothes. So much I noticed while the old friends were greeting each other. Then the two turned to me. "And so this is the author of _Love in the Valley_!" said the great publisher in a singularly musical voice. "Upon my word, I could not have believed it was such young work, General." "Ah! Miss Brandon is very old for her age," replied the General, highly delighted at the implied compliment to the book. "You've been reading it, Linklater?" We had sent in the manuscript before leaving home. "Yes, yes," said Mr. Linklater, still looking at me very kindly; "I've dipped into the early chapters. I think well of it, very well, for a first book. It isn't a _Jane Eyre_, you know, nor a _Wuthering Heights_. Still, 'tis pleasant reading, and very hopeful." "That's all we wanted you to say," said the General, a bit testily. "We're not fools about our first book, are we, Hilda?" "Indeed," said I truthfully, "Mr. Linklater's verdict is far kinder than I had dared to hope for." The publisher looked away from me as if the subject were done with. "And how are pheasants in your part of the world, MacNeill?"