“Well, they say that _roman psychologique_ is superseding the realistic novel in France. Will you allow me?” He offered to take the manuscript, and Ray eagerly undid it, and placed it in his hands. He turned over some pages of it, and dipped into it here and there. “Yes,” he said. “Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Mr. Ray. You leave this with us, and we’ll have our readers go over it, and report to us, and then we’ll communicate with you about it. What did you say your New York address was?” “I haven’t any yet,” said Ray; “but I’ll call and leave it as soon as I’ve got one.” He rose, and the young publisher said: “Well, drop in any time. We shall always be glad to see you. Of course I can’t promise you an immediate decision.” “Oh, no; I don’t expect that. I can wait. And I can’t tell you how much--how much I appreciate your kindness.” “Oh, not at all. Ah!” The boy came back with a type-written sheet in his hand; Mr. Brandreth took it and gave it to Ray. “There! You can get some idea from that of what we’re going to do. Take it with you. It’s manifolded, and you can keep this copy. Drop in again when you’re passing.” They shook hands, but they did not part there. Mr. Brandreth followed Ray out into the store, and asked him if he would not like some advance copies of their new books; he guessed some of them were ready. He directed a clerk to put them up, and then he said, “I’d like to introduce you to one of our authors. Mr. Kane!” he called out to what Ray felt to be the gentleman’s expectant back, and Mr. Kane promptly turned about from his bookshelf and met their advance half-way. “I want to make you acquainted with Mr. Ray.” “Fortune,” said Mr. Kane, with evident relish of his own voice and diction, “had already made us friends, in the common interest we took in a mistaken fellow-man whom we saw stealing a bag to travel with instead of a road to travel on. Before you came in, we were street intimates of five minutes’ standing, and we entered your temple of the Muses together. But I am very glad to know my dear friend by name.” He gave Ray the pressure of a soft, cool hand. “My name is doubtless familiar to you, Mr. Ray. We spell it a little differently since that unfortunate affair with Abel; but it is unquestionably the same name, and we are of that ancient family. Am I right,” he said, continuing to press the young man’s hand, but glancing at Mr. Brandreth for correction, with ironical deference, “in supposing that Mr. Ray is _one_ of us? I was sure,” he said, letting Ray’s hand go, with a final pressure, “that it must be so from the first moment! The signs of the high freemasonry of letters are unmistakable!” “Mr. Ray,” said Mr. Brandreth, “is going to cast his lot with us here in New York. He is from Midland, and he is still connected with one of the papers there.”