Hubert Brett, indeed, was more excited over this novel's birth than over that of any other. Almost every day he had to go up to see agent, publisher, or editor. He told Helena, as his excuse for leaving her so much, that it was most important this book, as a "popular" one, should be widely advertised and publishers were such eternal fools about that sort of thing. They always spent all their money upon other people's trash and then said they could not afford to help on your own books! As the day for publishing drew nearer, this theory bulked almost into an obsession. Helena came to dread the paper boy's arrival. Hubert would tear the dailies open, dash by instinct to the literary page, and then give a discordant laugh of scorn or anger. "Of course not," he would say. "They won't tell any one till it's been out a week! They mean to keep it dark, trust them!" "I dare say they're saving up for later on, dear," was her soothing reply. It was not always she, by now, who was the child. But he would not be soothed. Helena was glad when the day arrived, although it was a nervous time. He had been full, the night before, of how amusing it would be to hear the critics slang him for a change, instead of finding all those dull superlatives that put the public off: but remembering his past fury with those few reviews which found some blemish in his work, she had her misgivings. "Only I expect," she said, "it may seem rather curious at first--having bad notices, I mean." She looked across at him covertly and anxiously. She had begun, by now, to knit waistcoats for him and felt as though they had been married for eternity. Hubert, lounging idly in the other armchair, merely laughed. "Curious? Well, amusing.... It'll certainly be something new to be slated by the critics and rushed after by the libraries. It's usually been the other way about!" He knew, himself, that he would feel the blame from critics who had liked his work, but then---- After all, if the readers liked it and were thousands where they had been hundreds----! And there was the money.... Next morning the paper boy delivered a specially large roll of papers and Hubert flung himself upon them with unusual vigour. Helena, her eyes fixed on a letter where the words all flickered, was anxious to what might seem an unjustified extent. She could just see him with one corner of her eye. Paper after paper was torn open; his gaze ran greedily along the columns; but he never paused to read. At length he flung the last one down with a fierce gesture. "It's a boycott," he cried petulantly. "I've always had at least two notices, for years, upon the day. We sent them out early on purpose. It's nothing but a boycott." He seemed to find some consolation in that word with its historical immensity. "How too bad, dearest," murmured Helena, in duty and with a sinking heart. She saw no cause for any boycott. And she knew that his other novels had better deserved any privilege.