That evening I went off to the Temple to sound Hatton on the subject of signing my third book. The wretched sale of my first two had acted as something of a check to my enthusiasm for novel-writing. I had paused to take stock of my position. My first two novels had, I found on re-reading them, too much of the ’Varsity tone in them to be popular. That is the mistake a man falls into through being at Cambridge or Oxford. He fancies unconsciously that the world is peopled with undergraduates. He forgets that what appeals to an undergraduate public may be Greek to the outside reader and, unfortunately, not compulsory Greek. The reviewers had dealt kindly with my two books (“this pleasant little squib,” “full of quiet humour,” “should amuse all who remember their undergraduate days”); but the great heart of the public had remained untouched, as had the great purse of the public. I had determined to adopt a different style. And now my third book was ready. It was called, _When It Was Lurid_, with the sub-title, _A Tale of God and Allah_. There was a piquant admixture of love, religion, and Eastern scenery which seemed to point to a record number of editions. I took the type-script of this book with me to the Temple. Hatton was in. I flung _When It Was Lurid_ on the table, and sat down. “What’s this?” inquired Hatton, fingering the brown-paper parcel. “If it’s the corpse of a murdered editor, I think it’s only fair to let you know that I have a prejudice against having my rooms used as a cemetery. Go and throw him into the river.” “It’s anything but a corpse. It’s the most lively bit of writing ever done. There’s enough fire in that book to singe your tablecloth.” “You aren’t going to read it to me out loud?” he said anxiously. “No.” “Have I got to read it when you’re gone?” “Not unless you wish to.” “Then why, if I may ask, do you carry about a parcel which, I should say, weighs anything between one and two tons, simply to use it as a temporary table ornament? Is it the Sandow System?” “No,” I said; “it’s like this.” And suddenly it dawned on me that it was not going to be particularly easy to explain to Hatton just what it was that I wanted him to do. I made the thing clear at last, suppressing, of course, my reasons for the move. When he had grasped my meaning, he looked at me rather curiously. “Doesn’t it strike you,” he said, “that what you propose is slightly dishonourable?” “You mean that I have come deliberately to insult you, Hatton?” “Our conversation seems to be getting difficult, unless you grant that honour is not one immovable, intangible landmark, fixed for humanity, but that it is a commodity we all carry with us in varying forms.” “Personally, I believe that, as a help to identification, honour-impressions would be as useful as fingerprints.” “Good! You agree with me. Now, you may have a different view; but, in my opinion, if I were to pose as the writer of your books, and gained credit for a literary skill——”