MICHAEL sat correcting the proofs of 'Counterfeits' --the book left by Wilfrid behind him.
"Can you see Butterfield, sir?"
In Michael the word Butterfield excited an uneasy pride. The young man fulfilled with increasing success the function for which he had been engaged, on trial, four months ago. The head traveller had even called him 'a find.' Next to 'Copper Coin' he was the finest feather in Michael's cap. The Trade were not buying, yet Butterfield was selling books, or so it was reported; he appeared to have a natural gift of inspiring confidence where it was not justified. Danby & Winter had even entrusted to him the private marketing of that vellumbound 'Limited' of 'Duet,' by which they were hopingto recoup their losses on the ordinary edition. He was now engaged in working through a list of names considered likely to patronise the little masterpiece. This method of private approach had been suggested by himself.
"You see, sir," he had said to Michael: "I know a bit about Coué. Well, you can't work that on the Trade-- they've got no capacity for faith. What can you expect? Every day they buy all sorts of stuff, always basing themselves on past sales. You can't find one in twenty that'll back the future. But with private gentlemen, and especially private ladies, you can leave a thought with them like Coué does--put it into them again and again that day by day in every way the author's gettin' better and better; and ten to one when you go round next, it's