When he sent in his card, it bore the name of "Mr.
Vimpany."
"To what fortunate circumstance am I indebted, sir, for the honour of
your visit?" the senior partner inquired. His ingratiating manners, his
genial smile, his roundly resonant voice, were personal advantages of
which he made a merciless use. The literary customer who entered the
office, hesitating before the question of publishing a work at his own
expense, generally decided to pay the penalty when he encountered Mr.
Peter Boldside.
"I want to inquire about the sale of my work," Mr. Vimpany replied.
"Ah, doctor, you have come to the wrong man. You must go to my
brother."
Mr. Vimpany protested. "You mentioned the terms when I first applied to
you," he said, "and you signed the agreement."
"That is in _my_ department," the senior partner gently explained. "And
I shall write the cheque when, as we both hope, your large profits
shall fall due. But our sales of works are in the department of my
brother, Mr. Paul Boldside." He rang a bell; a clerk appeared, and
received his instructions: "Mr. Paul. Good-morning, doctor."
Mr. Paul was, personally speaking, his brother repeated--without the
deep voice, and without the genial smile.
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