She looked up, her beautiful grey eyes full of tears, and tried to smile.

Thank you," she said; "I am very silly, but I am so disappointed.

If you only knew

There, I will go. Thank you," and in another instant she had drawn herself up and left the room.

"Well," said Mr. Meeson, senior, who had been sitting at his desk with his great mouth open, apparently too much astonished to speak. "Well, there is a vixen for you. But she'll come round. I've known them to do that sort of thing before-there are one or two down there," and he jerked his thumb in the direction where the twenty and five tame authors sat each like a rabbit in his little hutch and did hat-work by the yard, "who carried on like that. But they are quiet enough now-they don't show much spirit now. I know how to deal with that sort of thing-half-pay and a double tale of copy-that's the ticket. Why, that girl will be worth fifteen hundred a year to the house. What do you think of it, young man, eh?"

"I think," answered his nephew, on whose goodtempered face a curious look of contempt and anger had gathered, "I think that you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

CHAPTER II

HOW EUSTACE WAS DISINHERITED

THERE was a pause—a dreadful pause. The flash had left the cloud, but the answering thunder had not burst upon the ear. Mr. Meeson gasped. Then he took up the cheque which Augusta had thrown upon the table and slowly crumpled it.

"What did you say, young man?" he said at last, in a cold, hard voice.

"I said that you ought to be ashamed of yourself," answered his nephew, standing his ground bravely; "and, what is more, I meant it!"

Oh! Now will you be so kind as to explain exactly why you said that, and why you meant it?"

"I meant it," answered his nephew, speaking in a full, strong voice, "because that girl was right when she said that you had cheated her, and you know that she was right. I have seen the accounts of 'Jemima's Vow'-I saw them this morning-and you have already made more than a thousand pounds clear profit on the book. And then when she comes to ask you for something over the beggarly fifty pounds which you

doled out to her, you refuse, and offer her three pounds as her share of the translation rights-three pounds as against your eleven!"

"Go on," interrupted his uncle; "pray go on."

"All right; I am going. That is not all: you actually avail yourself of a disgraceful trick to entrap this unfortunate girl into an agreement, whereby she becomes a literary bondslave for five years! As soon as you see that she has genius, you tell her that the expense of bringing out her book, and of advertising up her name, &c., &c., &c., will be very great-so great, indeed, that you cannot undertake it, unless, indeed, she agrees to let you have the first offer of everything she writes for five years to come, at somewhere about a fourth of the usual rate of a successful author's pay-though, of course, you don't tell her that. You take advantage of her inexperience to bind her by this iniquitous contract, knowing that the end of it will be that you will advance her a little money and get her into your power, and then will send her down there to the Hutches, where all the spirit and originality and genius will be crushed out of her work, and she will become a hat-writer like the rest of them. For Meeson's is a strictly commercial undertaking, you know, and Meeson's public don't like genius, they like their literature dull and holy!—and it's an infernal shame! that's what it is, uncle!" and the young man, whose

blue eyes were by this time flashing fire, for he had worked. himself up as he went along, brought his fist down with a bang upon the writing-table by way of emphasising his words.

"Have you done?" said his uncle.

"Yes, I've done; and I hope that I have put it plain."

"Very well; and now might I ask you, supposing that you should ever come to manage this business, if your sentiments accurately represent the system upon which you would proceed?"

"Of course they do. I am not going to turn dishonest for anybody."

"Thank you. They seem to have taught you the art of plain speaking up at Oxford-though, it appears,' with a sneer, “that they taught you very little else. Well, now it is my turn to speak; and I tell you what it is, young man: you will either instantly beg my pardon for what you have said, or you will leave Meeson's for good and all."

"I won't beg your pardon for speaking the truth,” said Eustace hotly; "the fact is, that here you never hear the truth: all these poor devils creep and crawl about you, and daren't call their souls their own. I shall be devilish glad to get out of this shop, I can tell you. I hate it. The place reeks of sharp practice and money-making-money-making by fair means or foul."