Leopold was almost hidden behind piles of manuscripts and newspapers
when Quincy entered his room.
"Up to your neck, Leopold?"
As soon as Leopold saw who had addressed him, he jumped up, pushed a
pile of manuscripts from his desk to the floor, and grasped Quincy's
extended hand in both of his.
"Let me help you pick up your papers," said Quincy.
"No, they're in their proper places. They're rejected. I have
accepted two out of fifty or more. The American author sends tons to
the literary mill, but it grinds out but a few pounds. But the
novices are improving. They will yet lead the world, for we have a
new country full of God's wonderful works, and a composite population
whose loves and hates reproduce in new scenes all the passions of the
Old World. They are the same pictures of human goodness and frailty
in new frames--and my business is to judge the workmanship of the
frames."
They talked about old times, particularly the success of Alice's
first romance.
"Marriage is often fatal to literary activity. Is your wife to write
another book?"
"I think not. We expect an addition--not edition--to our family
library soon after our return from England."
"That settles it. Literature takes a back seat when Maternity becomes
its competitor. It is well. Otherwise, how could we keep up our
supply of authors?"
The evening before the sailing of the _Altonia_, a happy party
assembled in a private dining room at Quincy's hotel.
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