In a coaxing tone he said: "Come, where did you get those details?
Take me into your confidence." "I have taken you into my confidence," laughed Shirley, pointing at her book.

"It cost you $1.50!" Turning over the papers he had put before her she said presently: "I don't know about this." "You don't think my life would make good reading ?" he asked with some asperity.
"It might," she replied slowly, as if unwilling to commit herself as to its commercial or literary value.

Then she said frankly: "To tell you the honest truth, I don't consider mere genius in money-making is sufficient provocation for rushing into print.

You see, unless you come to a bad end, it would have no moral." Ignoring the not very flattering insinuation contained in this last speech, the plutocrat continued to urge her: "You can name your own price if you will do the work," he said.
"Two, three or even five thousand dollars.

It's only a few months' work." "Five thousand dollars ?" echoed Shirley.