"You are," said the adviser irritably, "at the very beginning of a career. You have been surprisingly fortunate; there's scarcely a novelist in England who wouldn't be satisfied with such reviews as yours, and it's your first book. Think: twelve months ago you were a clerk in the city, and managed to place about three short stories a year at a guinea each. Then your aunt what-was-her-name left you the thousand pounds, and you chucked your berth and sat down to a novel. 'Nothing happens but the unforeseen'--the result justified you. You sold your novel; you got a hundred quid for it; and _The Saturday_, and _The Spectator_, and every paper whose opinion is worth a rush, hails you as a coming light. For you to consider marrying now would be flying in the face of a special providence." "Why?" said Humphrey Kent. "'Why'! Are you serious? Because your income is an unknown quantity. Because you've had a literary success, not a popular one. Because, if you keep single, you've a comfortable life in front of you. Because you'd be a damned fool." "The climax is comprehensive, if it isn't convincing. But the discussion is a trifle 'previous,' eh? I can't marry you, my pretty maid, et cetera." "You are with her all day," said Turquand--"I conclude she likes you. And the mother countenances it." "There's really nothing to countenance; and, remember, they haven't any idea of my position: they meet me at a fashionable hotel, they had read the book, and they saw _The Times_ review. What do they know of literary earnings? the father is on the Stock Exchange, I believe. I am an impostor!" "You should have gone to the little show I recommended on the quay, then. _I_ find it good enough." Kent laughed and stretched himself. "I am rewarding industry," he said. "For once I wallow. I came into the money, and I put it in a bank, and by my pen, which is mightier than the sword, I've replaced all I drew to live during the year. Ain't I entitled to a brief month's splash? Besides, I've never said I want to marry--I don't know what you're hacking at." "You haven't 'said' it, but the danger is about as plain as pica to the average intelligence, all the same. My son, how old are you--twenty-seven, isn't it? Pack your bag, ask for your bill, and go back with me by the morning boat; and, if you're resolved to make an ass of yourself over a woman, go and live in gilded infamy and buy sealskin jackets and jewellery while your legacy lasts. I'll forgive you that." "The prescription wouldn't be called orthodox?"