"That is the first verse. There are fifteen more," said Prunella.
"Then I think I shall not have time at present to hear you read it
all. You may leave it, and I will look it over at my leisure."
"If it suits you," said Prunella, "how much will it be worth?"
"I don't understand."
"How much would you be willing to pay for it?"
"Oh, we never pay for poems," said Mr. Houghton.
"Why not?" asked Miss Prune, evidently disappointed.
"Our contributors are kind enough to send them gratuitously."
"Is that fostering American talent?" demanded Prunella, indignantly.
"American poetical talent doesn't require fostering, judging from the
loads of poems which are sent in to us."
"You pay for stories, I presume?"
"Yes, we pay for good, popular stories."
"I have one here," said Prunella, untying her manuscript, "which I
should like to read to you."
"You may read the first paragraph, if you please. I haven't time to
hear more. What is the title?"
"'The Bandit's Bride.' This is the way it opens:--
"'The night was tempestuous. Lightnings flashed in the cerulean sky,
and the deep-voiced thunder rolled from one end of the firmament to
the other. It was a landscape in Spain. From a rocky defile gayly
pranced forth a masked cavalier, Roderigo di Lima, a famous bandit
chief.
"'"Ha! ha!" he laughed in demoniac glee, "the night is well fitted to
my purpose.
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