“Will they pay something in advance?” “They will, I guess, if they like the story. I don’t know very much about the business end of it.” “We mustn’t let them take advantage of us!” exclaimed Corydon. “No, of course not. But I hate to have to think about the money side of it. It’s a cruel thing that I have to sell my inspiration.” “What else could you do?” she asked. “It’s something I’ve thought a great deal about,” said he. “It kept forcing itself upon me all the time I was writing. Here I am with my vision--working day and night to make something beautiful and sacred, something without taint of self. And I have to take it to business-men, who will go out into the market-place and sell it to make money! It will come into competition with thousands of other books--and the publishers shouting their virtues like so many barkers at a fair. I can hardly bear to think of it; I’d truly rather live in a garret all my days than see it happen. I don’t want the treasures of my soul to be hawked on the streets.” “But how else could people get them?” asked Corydon. “I would like to have a publishing-house of my own, and to print my books with good paper and strong bindings that would last, and then sell them for just what they cost. So the whole thing would be consistent, and I could tell the exact truth about what I wrote. For I know the truth about my work; I’ve no vanities, I’d be as remorseless a critic of myself as Shelley was. I’d be willing to leave it to time for my real friends to find me out--I’d give up the department-store public to the authors who wanted it. And then, too, I could sell my books cheaply, so that the poor could get them. I always shudder to think that the people who most need what I write will have it kept away from them, because I am holding it back to make a profit!” “We must do that some day!” declared Corydon. “We must live very simply,” he said, “so we can begin it soon. Perhaps we can do it with the money we get from this first book. We could get everything we need for a thousand dollars a year, and save the balance.” The other assented to this. “I’ve got the prospectus of my publishing-house all written,” Thyrsis went on. “And I’ve several other plans worked out--people would laugh if they saw them, I guess. But before I get through, I’m going to have a reading-room where anyone can come and get my books. It’ll be down where the poor people are; and I’m going to have travelling libraries, so as to reach people in the country. That is the one hope for better things, as I see it--we must get ideas to the people!” Thus discoursing, they strolled back to the home of Thyrsis’ mother, and he went in to get his belongings together. Corydon went with him; and as they entered, the mother said, “There’s an express package for you.”