“‘It’ll surprise you, but I don’t think anything’s ever shocked me quite so much. I had heard you sing a great many times. I had made a sort of ideal of you, as young men will of actresses. You had become the embodiment to me of the gay, brightly coloured butterfly life of London; and, when I heard that rumour, your ruin seemed a criticism of the whole life you represented. That’s where it ends, I told myself. I thought of you as I had last seen you, singing in that great silver dress of yours. And then I thought of what life would be to you from then on. And I don’t know, but beneath its warmth and glitter that life seemed hard and cruel and revengeful. A month later I was married, and I’ve been very, very happy. And--well, it’s a bit late, I’m afraid, but if I can I should like to be able to do something for you now.’” Pussy Willow stopped speaking, tossed back her head and smiled. “And that’s the way I got my beer money for life.” “And was it true?” I asked. “True--what true?” “About Clive Ferguson?” She laughed a loud, harsh, triumphing laugh. “True, that! good God, no. Clive Ferguson! I wouldn’t look at him. Dirty great oily Jew. I wouldn’t have looked twice at him, not that way. I expect he started that story one evening when he was drunk--sheer swank to save his vanity. Oh no, he wasn’t the cause of that little jaunt of mine. No, I was away for six months, old sport, with the only man I think I’ve ever really cared for. A young boxer, he was, engaged to some soppy fool in the chorus. She brought him round to see us one evening. I had one look at him and made my mind up. He wasn’t going to waste himself on the likes of her. God! but I was mad about that boy. That’s really what started things against me. I rushed him straight away; didn’t give him time to think; and Clive Ferguson never forgave me. The understudy was an utter dud; clean smashed the piece, it did, in its second month. He never forgave me. Wouldn’t take me back again. And the money I spent on that boy; all my jewellery went and the things I’d put away. And of course I couldn’t keep him. One never can keep them. They use one as a stepping-stone. I never really got over it. I shan’t ever forget. But, oh, well! two pound a week for life I’ve got out of it. “And if it’s a woman’s job in life to make a man happy, to give him a good home and children, well, I suppose I’ve done it. I could laugh sometimes when I think how I have done it. But it doesn’t matter, does it, as long as the thing gets done.” What are you going to argue against that? and in literature as in life. As far as effect is concerned, social and moral effect that is to say, bad books, bad deeds, are just as valuable as good. Our contempt for the best seller, is it anything but a form of intellectual snobbery, or jealousy, which is the same thing, from another side. Best sellers!