“Well, Mr. Kato,” said he, “it is easier to sell a boot-legger a case of ginger-pop than for a publisher to support a wife and family on the publication of verse. If poets are determined to inflict on a patient public the dreams they dream and the visions they see, it is only fair that they should foot the bill--that the piper should pay for the paper and the printing and remunerate the publisher--in this case shall we say myself--for the time and trouble he gives to the preparation of the book. Are you willing to contribute towards the cost of production?” “If it must be so,” replied Mr. Kato. “It is the poetic fame which I desire.” “Very well, then,” said the publisher, “but first of all I must satisfy myself that the work is worthy to bear my imprint. My standard is high--if I find it reaches that standard I will have an estimate prepared, and then put my proposals before you. You shall have my decision within a week. Good afternoon.” Mr. Kato rose, shook hands, put on his bowler and walked towards the door. Now Mr. Cheltenham had been very uncharacteristically brusque and tart during this short interview, for he had not been quite at his ease. It was no doubt owing to his drowsiness, but it had seemed to him that Mr. Kato’s outline had been curiously smudgy and wavering, and as he walked away he had the impression that the little Jap’s shadow was walking out behind him, as if two little Orientals were passing across the room to the door. But the sun had long ceased to throw shadows into Willoughby Court. He took the MS. home with him that night, and after dinner began to look through it. It was entitled, _And He Shall Sing As Best He Can_. That pleased Mr. Cheltenham at once, for he recognised it as a quotation from _The Gates of Damascus_, that masterpiece of Flecker, a poem he considered of extreme delicacy, subtlety, and rhythmic and verbal beauty. That Mr. Kato should have chosen such a title gained the publisher’s sympathy at once.