for disposing of such wares. You will do better, I believe, to submit this interesting and delightful volume to some house which specialises in poetry. But, of course, we shall be charmed to consider them."
Dunkle understood that his name wasn't going to conjure Messrs. Capper into producing any volume of his poems. He looked sulky and said nothing.
"What we were hoping for from you," said Mr. Indermaur, "was—need I say it?—another novel. Another 'Trixie,' if that is possible. Offer us another novel, Mr. Dunkle, with a good throbbing Heart Interest in it, and we shall not be slow to accept it. But poems? Well, as I was saying, poems we do not exactly hunger for. Not even yours, Mr. Dunkle. Not—even—yours."
Dunkle looked sulkier than ever. He put
