Being well aware of Smith's great power, the young man climbed the dark stairs of the publisher's house close to the Great Church, not without misgivings. He had to wait for a long time in an outer office, a prey to the most unpleasant meditations, until suddenly the door was burst open and a young man rushed out of an inner office, despair on his face and a roll of paper under his arm. Shaking in every limb, Falk entered the sanctum, where the despot received his visitors, seated on a low sofa, calm and serene as a god; he kindly nodded his grey head, covered by a blue cap, and went on smoking, peacefully, as if he had never shattered a man's hopes or turned an unhappy wretch from his door.
"Good morning, sir, good morning!"
His divinely flashing eyes glanced at the newcomer's clothes and approved; nevertheless he did not ask him to sit down.
"My name is—Falk."
"Unknown to me! What is your father?"
"My father is dead."
"Is he? Good! What can I do for you, sir?"
Falk produced a manuscript from his breast pocket and handed it to Smith; the latter sat on it without looking at it.
"You want me to publish it? Verse? I might have guessed it! Do you know the cost of printing a single page, sir? No, you don't."
And he playfully poked the ignoramus with the stem of his pipe.