It is possible, when one is correcting proofs to persuade oneself of anything. The book appeared and was, from the first moment, loaded with mishap. On the day of publication there was that terrible fire at the Casino theatre--people talked of nothing else for a fortnight. Moreover by an unlucky chance young Rondel's novel, “The Precipice,” was published on the very same day, and as the precipice was a novel one and there were no less than three young ladies prepared to fall over it at the same moment, it of course commanded instant attention. It was incidentally written with an admirable sense of style and a keen sense of character. But Peter was now in a fever that saw an enemy round every corner. The English News Supplement only gave him a line:--“'Mortimer Stant.' A new novel by the author of 'Reuben Hallard,' depicting agreeably enough the amorous adventures of a stockbroker of middle-age.” To this had all his fine dreams, his moments of exultation, his fevered inspiration come! He searched the London booksellers but could find no traces of “Mortimer Stant” at any of them. His publishers told him that it was only the libraries that bought any fiction, with the exception of volumes by certain popular authors--and yet he saw at these booksellers novels by numbers of people who could not lay claim to the success that “Reuben Hallard” had secured for its writer. The reviews came in slowly, and, excepting for the smaller provincial papers, treated him with an indifference that was worse than neglect. “This interesting novel by Mr. Westcott”--“A pleasant tale of country life by the author of 'Reuben Hallard.' Will please those who like a quiet agreeable book without too much incident.” One London weekly review--a paper of considerable importance--took him severely to task, pointed out a number of incoherences of fact, commented on carelessness of style and finally advised Mr. Westcott, “if he is ever to write a book of real importance to work with greater care and to be less easily contented with a superficial facility.” But worse than these were the opinions of his friends. Henry Galleon was indeed gone, but there were a few--Mrs. Launce, Alfred Lester, William Trent, Alfred Hext--who had taken a real and encouraging interest in him from the beginning. They took him seriously enough to tell him the truth, and tell him the truth they did. Dear Mrs. Launce, who couldn't bear to hurt anybody and saw perhaps that he was taking the book a great deal more hardly than he had taken the others, veiled it as well as she could:--“I do think it's got splendid things in it, Peter dear--splendid things. That bit about the swimming and the character of Mrs. Mumps. But it doesn't hang together. There's a great deal of repetition. It's as though you'd written it with your mind on something else all the time.”