To which the father replied with the popular mendacity which is taught in all American histories, "Of course, Americans have never been defeated." "Well, I thought he was American. He looks like an American, any way." This unsolicited testimonial to his personal appearance evidently impressed Mr. Legion, for when he returned to the dining-room there was a marked increase of geniality in his manner. "And now let me hear what you've written about your friend," he said. Arthur produced his manuscript, and began to read. It was an admirable paper, an uncoloured and just statement of his friend's aim and method, which a discerning critic would have readily recognised as excellent writing. It seemed, however, to produce a totally different impression on Mr. Legion. Looking up, Arthur saw the geniality fading from his face, and something like consternation displacing it. The moment he finished the reading, Legion spoke. "My dear sir," he began, "it won't do--it won't do at all. It might suit your dull old English papers, but for the bright, smart, up-to-date American periodical, it won't do at all." "What's wrong with it?" said Arthur, with a blush. "Why, the trouble is, it's all wrong. Our readers don't want to know about the man's books, they want to know something about _him_. Couldn't you tell us how he looks, and what coloured ties he wears, and what he eats and drinks and how much he earns, and something about that interesting daughter of his? That's what our readers like, sir--bright, personal, spicy, snappy details. And look here, you haven't said a word about his having had a fever through bad drains. You might have worked that up, any way--how he lived among the poor on purpose to study their lives, and got the fever doing it, and that sort of stunt. You ought to have made him romantic and picturesque, and worked his lovely daughter in, and then people would have begun to ask about his books." "I'm sorry, but that's not the English way of writing." "English--nothing! You're in America now, and you must write the American way. I did hope for something better. You can write--I won't deny that--and you look smart enough to write any way you darn please. My boy Ulysses saw that at once. He said to me, 'Pop, he looks like an American.' And so you do, for my boy Ulysses is rarely mistaken, and yet you haven't got the first idea how to write the American way. What are those old colleges of yours for, any way, if they can't teach you to write livelier stuff that that?"