WHEN PIPPA PASSED
"Pippa. That's her name. Philippa It is really; she was named after the daughter of a lady her mother nursed when she was sick, and so she named her after this lady's daughter. But she couldn't say it plain, you see, so she always called herself Pippa for short, and so they all call her that still. I suppose you never heard it before—I never did."
"It is a strange name—for a cashier," said Mr. Delafield.
"Yes, indeed. Well, her Uncle Joseph is a stenographer in a newspaper office, and he knows a good deal about this sort of thing, and he says not to publish with the Ds. He says they're a poky firm and don't advertise enough. If I gave the book to the Ls they'd push it along, he says. He says they'd make anything sell. The Ds wouldn't put up posters on bill-boards, now, would they?"
"I suppose not," said Delafield. He felt unaccountably tired. He had not realised till now how much his mind had been filled with Henry West and his poetry, how much he had anticipated introducing his rare young protegé.
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