'Nonsense!--Miss Wilkes, of course. Well, she married this fellow Jedwood, and there was a great row about something or other between him and her publishers. Mrs Boston Wright told me all about it. An astonishing woman that; a cyclopaedia of the day's small talk. I'm quite a favourite with her; she's promised to help the girls all she can. Well, but I was talking about Jedwood. Why not offer him this book of yours? He's eager to get hold of the new writers. Advertises hugely; he has the whole back page of The Study about every other week. I suppose Miss Wilkes's profits are paying for it. He has just given Markland two hundred pounds for a paltry little tale that would scarcely swell out to a volume. Markland told me himself. You know that I've scraped an acquaintance with him? Oh! I suppose I haven't seen you since then. He's a dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs Boston Wright cries him up at every opportunity.'
'Who IS Mrs Boston Wright?' asked Reardon, laughing impatiently.
'Edits The English Girl, you know. She's had an extraordinary life. Was born in Mauritius--no, Ceylon--I forget; some such place. Married a sailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere, and only restored to life after terrific efforts;--her story leaves it all rather vague. Then she turns up as a newspaper correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, and took to some kind of farming, I forget where. Married again (first husband lost in aforementioned shipwreck), this time a Baptist minister, and began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Husband burned to death, somewhere. She's next discovered in the thick of literary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you. Must be nearly fifty, but she looks twenty-five.'
He paused, then added impulsively:
'Let me take you to one of her evenings--nine on Thursday. Do persuade him, Mrs Reardon?'
Reardon shook his head.
'No, no. I should be horribly out of my element.'
'I can't see why. You would meet all sorts of well-known people;those you ought to have met long ago. Better still, let me ask her to send an invitation for both of you. I'm sure you'd like her, Mrs Reardon. There's a good deal of humbug about her, it's true, but some solid qualities as well. No one has a word to say against her. And it's a splendid advertisement to have her for a friend. She'll talk about your books and articles till all is blue.'
Amy gave a questioning look at her husband. But Reardon moved in an uncomfortable way.
'We'll see about it,' he said. 'Some day, perhaps.'
'Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: Ihappen to know a man who reads for him.'
'Heavens!' cried Reardon. 'Who don't you know?'
'The simplest thing in the world. At present it's a large part of my business to make acquaintances. Why, look you; a man who has to live by miscellaneous writing couldn't get on without a vast variety of acquaintances. One's own brain would soon run dry; a clever fellow knows how to use the brains of other people.'
Amy listened with an unconscious smile which expressed keen interest.
'Oh,' pursued Jasper, 'when did you see Whelpdale last?'
'Haven't seen him for a long time.'
'You don't know what he's doing? The fellow has set up as a "literary adviser." He has an advertisement in The Study every week. "To Young Authors and Literary Aspirants"--something of the kind. "Advice given on choice of subjects, MSS. read, corrected, and recommended to publishers. Moderate terms." A fact! And what's more, he made six guineas in the first fortnight; so he says, at all events. Now that's one of the finest jokes I ever heard. A man who can't get anyone to publish his own books makes a living by telling other people how to write!'
'But it's a confounded swindle!'
'Oh, I don't know. He's capable of correcting the grammar of "literary aspirants," and as for recommending to publishers--well, anyone can recommend, I suppose.'
Reardon's indignation yielded to laughter.
'It's not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing.'
'Not at all,' assented Jasper.
Shortly after this he looked at his watch.
'I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before Ican go to my truckle-bed, and it'll take me three hours at least.
Good-bye, old man. Let me know when your story's finished, and we'll talk about it. And think about Mrs Boston Wright; oh, and about that review in The Current. I wish you'd let me do it. Talk it over with your guide, philosopher, and friend.'
He indicated Amy, who laughed in a forced way.
When he was gone, the two sat without speaking for several minutes.
'Do you care to make friends with those girls?' asked Reardon at length.
'I suppose in decency I must call upon them?'
'I suppose so.'
'You may find them very agreeable.'
'Oh yes.'
They conversed with their own thoughts for a while. Then Reardon burst out laughing.
'Well, there's the successful man, you see. Some day he'll live in a mansion, and dictate literary opinions to the universe.'
'How has he offended you?'
'Offended me? Not at all. I am glad of his cheerful prospects.'
'Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be good for you in several ways.'
'If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, Idare say I shouldn't have refused. But I certainly shall not present myself as the author of "Margaret Home," and the rubbish I'm now writing.'
'Then you must cease to write rubbish.'
'Yes. I must cease to write altogether.'
'And do what?'
'I wish to Heaven I knew!'
