He had no one to consult in his dilemma. Every morning he received several cuttings, chiefly of an amiable character, about himself from the daily and weekly press; he was a figure in literary circles; he had actually declined two invitations to be interviewed; and yet he knew no more of literary circles than Sarah did. His position struck him as curious, bizarre, and cruel. He sometimes felt that the history of the last few months was a dream from which he would probably wake up by falling heavily out of bed, so unreal did the events seem. One day, when he was at his wits' end, he saw in a newspaper an advertisement of a book entitled _How to become a Successful Novelist_, price half-a-crown. Just above it was an advertisement of the thirty-eighth thousand of _Love in Babylon_. He went into a large bookseller's shop in the Strand and demanded _How to become a Successful Novelist_. The volume had to be searched for, and while he was waiting Henry's eyes dwelt on a high pile of _Love in Babylon_, conspicuously placed near the door. Two further instalments of the Satin Library had been given to the world since _Love in Babylon_, but Henry noted with satisfaction that no excessive prominence was accorded to them in that emporium of literature. He paid the half-crown and pocketed _How to become a Successful Novelist_ with a blush, just as if the bookseller had been his new tailor. He had determined, should the bookseller recognise him--a not remote contingency--to explain that he was buying _How to become a Successful Novelist_ on behalf of a young friend. However, the suspicions of the bookseller happened not to be aroused, and hence there was no occasion to lull them. That same evening, in the privacy of his study, he eagerly read _How to become a Successful Novelist_. It disappointed him; nay, it desolated him. He was shocked to discover that he had done nothing that a man must do who wishes to be a successful novelist. He had not practised style; he had not paraphrased choice pages from the classics; he had not kept note-books; he had not begun with short stories; he had not even performed the elementary, obvious task of studying human nature. He had never thought of 'atmosphere' as 'atmosphere'; nor had he considered the important question of the 'functions of dialogue.' As for the 'significance of scenery,' it had never occurred to him. In brief, he was a lost man. And he could detect in the book no practical hint towards salvation. 'Having decided upon your theme----' said the writer in a chapter entitled 'The Composition of a Novel.' But what Henry desired was a chapter entitled 'The Finding of a Theme.' He suffered the aggravated distress of a starving man who has picked up a cookery-book. There was a knock at the study door, and Henry hastily pushed _How to become a Successful Novelist_ under the blotting-paper, and assumed a meditative air. Not for worlds would he have been caught reading it.