“You are very kind,” said Ray. “I couldn’t think of intruding on you, of course.” Their exchange of civilities was checked by the return of the boy, who said Miss Hughes would have the list ready in a few minutes. “Well, just ask her to bring it here, will you?” said Mr. Brandreth. “I want to speak to her about some of these letters.” “I’m taking a great deal of your time, Mr. Brandreth,” Ray said. “Not at all, not at all. I’m making a kind of holiday week of it, anyway. I’m a good deal excited,” and Mr. Brandreth smiled so benevolently that Ray could not help taking advantage of him. The purpose possessed him almost before he was aware of its activity; he thought he had quelled it, but now he heard himself saying in a stiff unnatural voice, “I have a novel of my own, Mr. Brandreth, that I should like to submit to you.” IX. “Oh, indeed!” said Mr. Brandreth, with a change in his voice, too, which Ray might well have interpreted as a tone of disappointment and injury. “Just at present, Mr. Ray, trade is rather quiet, you know.” “Yes, I know,” said Ray, though he thought he had been told the contrary. He felt very mean and guilty; the blood went to his head, and his face burned. “Our list for the fall trade is full, as I was saying, and we couldn’t really touch anything till next spring.” “Oh, I didn’t suppose it would be in time for the fall trade,” said Ray, and in the sudden loss of the easy terms which he had been on with the publisher, he could not urge anything further. Mr. Brandreth must have felt their estrangement too, for he said, apologetically: “Of course it’s our business to examine manuscripts for publication, and I hope it’s going to be our business to publish more and more of them, but an American novel by an unknown author, as long as we have the competition of these pirated English novels--If we can only get the copyright bill through, we shall be all right.” Ray said nothing aloud, for he was busy reproaching himself under his breath for abusing Mr. Brandreth’s hospitality. “What is the--character of your novel?” asked Mr. Brandreth, to break the painful silence, apparently, rather than to inform himself. “The usual character,” Ray answered, with a listlessness which perhaps passed for careless confidence with the young publisher, and piqued his interest. “It’s a love-story.” “Of course. Does it end well? A great deal depends upon the ending with the public, you know.” “I suppose it ends badly. It ends as badly as it can,” said the author, feeling that he had taken the bit in his teeth. “It’s unrelieved tragedy.” “That isn’t so bad, sometimes,” said Mr. Brandreth. “That is, if the tragedy is intense enough. Sometimes a thing of that kind takes with the public, if the love part is good and strong. Have you the manuscript here in New York with you?” “I have it here in my lap with me,” said Ray, with a desperate laugh.