The chimes of unseen belfries and the roll of carriages visible only for a few seconds fell upon their ears.

Felicita, in the secret excitement of her mood, felt herself in some impossible world, some phantasmagoria of a dream, which must presently disperse, and she would find herself at home again, in her quiet, dainty study at Riversborough, where most of the manuscript, which she held so closely in her hand, had been written.
But the dream was dispelled when she found herself entering the publishing-house she had fixed upon as her first scene of venture.

It was a quiet place, with two or three clerks busily engaged in some private conversation, too interesting to be abruptly terminated by the entrance of two ladies dressed in mourning, one of whom carried a roll of manuscript.

If Felicita had been wise the manuscript would not have been there to betray her.

It made it exceedingly difficult for her to obtain admission to the publisher, in his private room beyond; and it was only when she turned away to go, with a sudden outflashing of aristocratic haughtiness, that the clerk reluctantly offered to take her card and a message to his employer.
In a few moments Felicita was entering the dark den where the fate of her book was in the balance.