"These are money, Higginson, money."
He read them out. An offer to write for a magazine; a much more lucrative offer to write for The Only Daily Paper—but to write exclusively—and so forth.
"That 's the one to take," said Babcock, he pulled out a note with an American heading, ticked it, and tossing it to the Professor, said—
"Shall I answer it for you?"
"No," said Higginson, trying to be firm.
"Oh, very well then," said Babcock, "dictate it yourself."
And the Professor with infinite verbiage gratefully accepted an exclusive article of three thousand words for the sum of £250.
It was the turn of the Big-Wigs, and the learned Babcock with unerring eye skipped an actor and a Duchess of equal prominence, and fished out The Great Invitation.
It was the first document upon which he had condescended to linger, and though it was short, he spent some moments over it. His face grew grave.
"That 's a big thing!" he said solemnly, handing it over almost with reverence to the Professor of Psychology.
The Professor read a good London address simply stamped upon a good piece of note
