Acting under some sudden impulse, she made a personal call on Henry Slater, the senior member of the publishing house of Slater & Slater, of 148 Fifth Avenue. It was this firm which had handled so successfully, and, it might be added, so profitably to both themselves and the author, her earlier volume, The Silver Poppy. It was not unnatural, therefore, that from time to time the senior member of this business house should duly and most solicitously inquire of Miss Vaughan just when he should have the privilege and pleasure of considering another volume from her pen. Of late these inquiries had grown no less frequent, though, perhaps less hopeful. In the inspirational lull, when the town was still agog over the dramatization of the novel, he had made the most of his chance by reissuing the book in an _édition de luxe_, handsomely illustrated and signed by the author--a hastily ordered voluntary to appease the wrath of a long waiting and impatient audience. When Cordelia, accordingly, was ushered into the private office of Mr. Henry Slater, that gentleman received her with every sign of cordiality. She could not help recalling her first visit to the same office, an awkward and overawed girl from the country, who had been kept waiting a long half-hour before the very gentleman who now cordially placed a chair for her so much as asked her what her business might be. And she felt once more that after all there was nothing that succeeds like success. She stated the purpose of her visit, and gave him as favorable and as graphic an outline of the new book as she was able. Her quick memory served her well, and there were few points of importance which she omitted from the movement of the story. "This appeals to me strongly, very strongly indeed, Miss Vaughan. In fact, I see no reason in the world, none whatever, why such a book should not be the success of the season. I say season because, of course, you know our best books live only a season nowadays. But how soon did you say I might see the manuscript?" "It might be a few days, it might be even a few weeks." "H-m-m! That is unfortunate. You see, we have already closed our list for this year, and, as you must know, the season is already well advanced." She looked studiously into his cold green eyes; she gazed at the high, shiny, narrowing forehead, and the long line of the thin, meditating lips that so seldom relaxed, and the sharp, narrow nose with its touch of quiet cruelty. But she knew him now better than she had once known him. She rose to go, languidly. He looked at her disconcerted, even alarmed. "But please be seated. Rather than hold a book over until the spring, we could, of course, reopen our list and hold back other matter. What would be the earliest date--the assured date--that we could go over the manuscript?" Cordelia could not say, but she boldly assumed it would be within a week's time.