Then Goldenhair, who had vanished, came back, and, with the most enchanting smile that Henry had ever seen on the face of a pretty woman, lured him by delicious gestures into Mr. Mark Snyder's private office.
'Well,' exclaimed Mr. Snyder, full of good-humour, 'here we are again.' He was a fair, handsome man of about forty, and he sat at a broad table playing with a revolver. 'What do you think of that, Mr. Knight?' he asked sharply, holding out the revolver for inspection.
Mr. Snyder laughed heartily. 'I'm going to America to-morrow. I told you, didn't I? Never been there before. So I thought I'd get a revolver. Never know, you know. Eh?' He laughed again.
Then he suddenly ceased laughing, and sniffed the air.
'Is this a business office?' Henry asked himself. 'Or is it a club?'
His feet were on a Turkey carpet. He was seated in a Chippendale chair. A glorious fire blazed behind a brass fender, and the receptacle for coal was of burnished copper. Photogravures in rich oaken frames adorned the roseate walls. The ceiling was an expanse of ornament, with an electric chandelier for centre.
'Have a cigarette?' said Mr. Snyder, pushing across towards Henry a tin of Egyptians.
'Thanks,' said Henry, who did not usually smoke, and he put _Love in Babylon_ on the table.
'Now, what can I do for you?' said he abruptly.
Henry explained the genesis, exodus, and vicissitudes of _Love in Babylon_, and Mr. Snyder stretched out an arm and idly turned over a few leaves of the manuscript as it lay before its author.
'Who's your amanuensis?' he demanded, smiling.
'Ah yes!' said Mr. Snyder, smiling still, 'It's too short, you know,' he added, grave. 'Too short. What length is it?'
'None of your legal jargon here,' Mr. Snyder laughed again. 'What's a folio?'
'About twenty thousand words then, eh? Too short!'
'Does that matter?' Henry demanded. 'I should have thought----'
'Of course it matters,' Mr. Snyder snapped. 'If you went to a concert, and it began at eight and finished at half-past, would you go out satisfied with the performers' assurance that quality and not quantity was the thing? Ha, ha!'
Mr. Snyder sniffed the air yet again, and looked at the fire inquisitively, still sniffing.
'There's only one price for novels, six-shillings,' Mr. Snyder proceeded. 'The public likes six shillings' worth of quality. But it absolutely insists on six shillings' worth of quantity, and doesn't object to more. What can I do with this?' he went on, picking up _Love in Babylon_ and weighing it as in a balance. 'What _can_ I do with a thing like this?'