“Ah,” said Mr. Ardsley, “that is the problem.” He smiled, rather sadly, as he sat watching the lad. “You see how _I’ve_ solved it,” he went on. “I was young once myself, and I tried to write novels. And in those days I blamed the publishers--I thought they stood in my way. But now, I see how it is; a publisher is engaged in a highly competitive business, and he barely makes interest on his capital; he can’t afford to publish books that won’t pay their way. Here am I, for instance--it’s my business to advise this house; and if I advise them wrongly, what becomes of me? If I take them your manuscript and say, ‘It’s a real piece of work,’ they’ll ask me, ‘Will it pay its way?’ And I have to answer them, ‘I don’t think it will.’” “But such things as they publish!” exclaimed the boy, wildly. And Mr. Ardsley smiled again. “Yes,” he said. “But they pay their way. In fact, they save the business.” So Thyrsis went out. He saw quite clearly now the simple truth--it was not a matter of art at all, but a matter of business. It was a business-world, and not an art-world; and he--poor fool--was trying to be an artist! For three days more he toiled at his pot-boiler; and then, late at night, he went out to get some fresh air, and to try to shake off the load of despair that was upon him. And so came the explosion. Perhaps it was because the wind was blowing, and Thyrsis loved the wind; it was a mirror of his own soul to him, incessant and irresistible and mysterious. And so his demons awoke again. He had gone through all that labor, he had built up all that glory in his spirit--and it was all for naught! He had made himself a flame of desire--and now it was to be smothered and stifled! He had written his book, and it was a great book, and they knew it. But all they told him was to go and write another book--and to do pot-boilers in the meantime! But that was impossible, he could not do it. He would win with the book he had written! He would make them hear him--he would make them read that book! He began to compose a manifesto to the world; and towards morning he came home and shut himself in and wrote it. He called it “Business and Art;” and in it he told about his book, and how he had worked over it. He told, quite frankly, what the book was; and he asked if there was anywhere in the United States a publisher who published books because they were noble, and not because they sold; or if there was a critic, or booklover, or philanthropist, or a person of any sort, who would stand by a true artist. “This artist will work all day and nearly all night,” he wrote, “and he wants less than the wages of a day-laborer. All else that ever comes to him in his life he will give for a chance to follow his career!” Then Corydon awoke, and he read it to her. She listened, thrilling with amazement. “Oh, Thyrsis!” she cried. “What are you going to do with it?”