just what an editor wants.
“And this,” continued the Poet, laying down the other bundle, “is the original manuscript of my forthcoming Book of Poems.—”
Sweet of him, we thought, to present it to us.
“It will be issued next Autumn in Cairo.—”
Fortunate City!
“And if you will get to work on it at once—”
Mercy!
“You can get out an English Translation in three month, I am sure—”
We sink in our chair in breathless amazement.
“The Book will then appear simultaneously both in London and Cairo.”
We sit up, revived with another happy idea, and assure the Poet that his Work will be translated into a universal language, and that very soon. For which assurance he kisses us again and again, and goes away hugging his Muse.