“No; people haven’t. They think publishers are rolling in riches at the expense of the author and the reader. And some publishers themselves believe that if we could only keep up the old system of letting the regular trade have the lion’s share on long credit, their prosperity would be assured. I don’t, myself. If we could get hold of a good, breezy, taking story, I’d like to try my chance with it in the hands of some large dry-goods man.” Ray’s heart thrilled. His own story had often seemed to him good and taking; whether it was breezy or not, he had never thought. He wished he knew just what Mr. Brandreth meant by breezy; but he did not like to ask him. His hand twitched nervelessly on the manuscript in his lap, and he said, timidly: “Would it be out of the way for me to refer to some of these facts--they’re not generally known--in my letters? Of course not using your name.” “Not at all! I should be very glad to have them understood,” said Mr. Brandreth. “And what do you think is the outlook for the winter trade, Mr. Brandreth?” “Never better. I think we’re going to have a _good_ trade. We’ve got a larger list than we’ve had for a great many years. The fact is,” said Mr. Brandreth, and he gave a glance at Ray, as if he felt the trust the youthful gravity of his face inspired in most people--“the fact is, Chapley & Co. have been dropping too much out of sight, as publishers; and I’ve felt, ever since I’ve been in the firm, that we ought to give the public a sharp reminder that we’re not merely booksellers and jobbers. I want the house to take its old place again. I don’t mean it’s ever really lost caste, or that its imprint doesn’t stand for as much as it did twenty years ago. I’ll just show you our list if you can wait a moment.” Mr. Brandreth closed a pair of wooden mandibles lying on his desk; an electric bell sounded in the distance, and a boy appeared. “You go and ask Miss Hughes if she’s got that list of announcements ready yet.” The boy went, and Mr. Brandreth took up one of the cards of the firm. “If you would like to visit some of the other houses, Mr. Ray, I’ll give you our card,” and he wrote on the card, “Introducing Mr. Ray, of the Midland _Echo_. P. Brandreth,” and handed it to him. “Not Peter, but Percy,” he said, with a friendly smile for his own pleasantry. “But for business purposes it’s better to let them suppose it’s Peter.” Ray laughed, and said he imagined so. He said he had always felt it a disadvantage to have been named Shelley; but he could not write himself P. B. S. Ray, and he usually signed simply S. Ray. “Why, then, we really have the same first name,” said Mr. Brandreth. “It’s rather an uncommon name, too. I’m very glad to share it with you, Mr. Ray.” It seemed to add another tie to those that already bound them in the sympathy of youth, and the publisher said, “I wish I could ask you up to my house; but just now, you know, it’s really a nursery.”