"There," he said benevolently; "a capital work! It deserves to sell largely; the publishers should be hopeful of it. The plates are bold, and the matter seems to me of a high degree of excellence. The fault I usually condemn in such illustrations is the mistake of making 'pictures' of them, to the detriment of their usefulness; clearness is always the grand desideratum in an illustration of a mechanical contrivance. With this, the customary blunder has been avoided; in looking through the specimen I've scarcely detected one instance where I would suggest an alteration. And, though I wouldn't promise"--he laughed good-humouredly--"but what on a more careful inspection I might be forced to temper praise with blame, I'm inclined, on the whole, to give the book my hearty commendation." "But will you buy it?" demanded Miss Brettan. "No," said the old gentleman, "thank you; I never buy books--I have so many. No trouble at all; I am very pleased to have seen it. Allow me!" He bowed her out with genial ceremony, and seemed to be under the impression that he had conferred a favour. The next gentleman that she wanted to see was dead. Number 3 had gone on a trial-trip; and two other gentlemen were out of town. Number 6, on reference to her paper, proved to be a "Mr. Crespigny." His outer office much resembled that of Mr. Hatch, and more supercilious young men were busy behind a counter. She waited while her name was taken in to him. On Mr. Collins's theory, this, the sixth venture, ought to result in half a guinea to her. She had by now arranged a little overture, and was ready to introduce herself in coherent phrases. Instead of her being admitted to the inner room, however, Mr. Crespigny came out, in the wake of his clerk, and it devolved upon her to explain her business publicly. He was a tall man with a pointed beard, and he advanced towards her in interrogative silence, flicking a cigarette. Her heart was thudding. "Good-morning," she said; "Messrs. Pattenden, the publishers, have asked me to wait upon you with a specimen of a new work that----" Mr. Crespigny deliberately turned his back, and walked to the threshold of the private office without a word. Regaining it, he spoke to the hapless clerk. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "don't you know a book-agent yet when you see one?"