“No, no! Nothing of the kind, I assure you!” said Mr. Brandreth, joyously. “Everything is on a strict business basis with me, always. But I wish you could see that little fellow, Mr. Kane. Of course it sounds preposterous to say it of a child only eight days old, but I believe he begins to notice already.” “You must get him to notice your books. Do get him to notice mine! He is beginning young, but perhaps not _too_ young for a critic,” said Mr. Kane, and he abruptly took his leave, as one does when he thinks he has made a good point, and Mr. Brandreth laughed the laugh of a man who magnanimously joins in the mirth made at his expense. Ray stayed a moment after Mr. Kane went out, and Brandreth said, “There is one of the most puzzling characters in New York. If he could put himself into a book, it would make his fortune. He’s a queer genius. Nobody knows how he lives; but I fancy he has a little money of his own; his book doesn’t sell fifty copies in a year. What did he mean by that about the travelling-bag?” Ray explained, and Mr. Brandreth said: “Just like him! He must have spotted you in an instant. He has nothing to do, and he spends most of his time wandering about. He says New York is his book, and he reads it over and over. If he could only work up that idea, he could make a book that everybody would want. But he never will. He’s one of those men whose talk makes you think he could write anything; but his book is awfully dry--perfectly crumby. Ever see it? _Hard Sayings_? Well, good-by! I _wish_ I could ask you up to my house; but you see how it is!” “Oh, yes! I see,” said Ray. “You’re only too good as it is, Mr. Brandreth.” X.