As a method of earning one’s living, this was almost too good to be true. The worse the manuscripts were the easier was his task; in fact, when he came upon one which showed traces of real power and interest he cursed his fate, for then it might take several days to earn his five dollars. But for the most part the manuscripts were bad enough, and he could have earned a year’s income in a week, if only there had been enough of them. So he made a great effort to succeed at the work, and filled his reports with epigrams and keen observations, carefully adapted to what he knew was Mr. Ardsley’s point of view. He allowed time for these devices to be effective, and then paid a visit to find out about the prospects. “Mr. Ardsley,” he began, “I am going to try to meet you half way with a book.” “Ah!” said the other. “I want to write a novel that you can publish. I believe that I can do it.” Mr. Ardsley warmed immediately. “I have always been certain that you could,” said he. He went on to expound to Thyrsis the ethics of opportunism--how it would not be necessary to be false to his convictions, to write anything that he did not believe--but simply to put his convictions into a popular form, and to impart no more than the public could swallow at the first mouthful. Thyrsis told him the outline of a plot. He would write a story of the struggles of a young author in the metropolis--not such a young author as himself, a rebel and a frenzied egotist, but a plain, everyday young author whom other people could care about. He had the “local color” for such a tale, and he could do it without too much waste of time. Mr. Ardsley thought it an excellent idea. After which Thyrsis came, very cautiously, to the meat of the matter. “I want to get away into the country to write it,” he said; “and so I wanted to ask you about the manuscripts you are sending me. Have you found my work satisfactory?” “Why, yes,” said the other. “And do you think you can send them through the summer?” “I presume so. It depends upon how many come to us.” “You--you couldn’t arrange to let me have any more of them?” “Not at present,” said Mr. Ardsley. “You see, I have regular readers, whose work I know. I’ll send you what I have to spare.” “Thank you,” said Thyrsis. “I’ll be glad to have all you can give me.” So he went away; and in the little room he and Corydon had an anxious consultation. He had been getting about twenty dollars a month; which was not enough for the family to exist upon. “Our only hope is a new book,” he declared; and Corydon saw that was the truth. “Each week that I stay here is a loss,” he added. “I have to pay room-rent.” “But can you stand tenting out in April?” asked she. “I’ll chance it,” he replied--“if you’ll say the word.” She saw that her duty was before her; she must nerve herself and face it, though it tore her heartstrings. She must stay and take care of the baby, while he went away to work!