Sir Nicholas was highly diverted. He explained that he was alluding to the fact that Messrs. ⸻ (here he mentioned a well-known firm of publishers) would be delighted, if he wrote them a line, to put the book on their list. He could probably arrange for a royalty of ten percent on all copies up to two thousand; after that it would be fifteen. As for the reviewers, he would himself write a line to Mr. ⸻, who was the most influential; then a compliment⁠—say a little puff of her own poems⁠—addressed to the wife of the editor of the ⸻ never did any harm. He would call ⸻. So he ran on. Orlando understood nothing of all this, and from old experience did not altogether trust his good nature, but there was nothing for it but to submit to what was evidently his wish and the fervent desire of the poem itself. So Sir Nicholas made the bloodstained packet into a neat parcel; flattened it into his breast pocket, lest it should disturb the set of his coat; and with many compliments on both sides, they parted.