For the letters had ceased again, almost abruptly, since Vyse had hazarded the conjecture that they were the product of Strett’s devoted pen. Betton had reverted only once to the subject--to ask ironically, a day or two later: “Is Strett writing to me as much as ever?”--and, on Vyse’s replying with a neutral head-shake, had added with a laugh: “If you suspect _him_ you might as well think I write the letters myself!” “There are very few to-day,” said Vyse, with his irritating evasiveness; and Betton rejoined squarely: “Oh, they’ll stop soon. The book’s a failure.” A few mornings later he felt a rush of shame at his own tergiversations, and stalked into the library with Vyse’s sentence on his tongue. Vyse started back with one of his anaemic blushes. “I was hoping you’d be in. I wanted to speak to you. There’ve been no letters the last day or two,” he explained. Betton drew a quick breath of relief. The man had some sense of decency, then! He meant to dismiss himself. “I told you so, my dear fellow; the book’s a flat failure,” he said, almost gaily. Vyse made a deprecating gesture. “I don’t know that I should regard the absence of letters as the ultimate test. But I wanted to ask you if there isn’t something else I can do on the days when there’s no writing.” He turned his glance toward the book-lined walls. “Don’t you want your library catalogued?” he asked insidiously. “Had it done last year, thanks.” Betton glanced away from Vyse’s face. It was piteous, how he needed the job! “I see. ... Of course this is just a temporary lull in the letters. They’ll begin again--as they did before. The people who read carefully read slowly--you haven’t heard yet what _they_ think.” Betton felt a rush of puerile joy at the suggestion. Actually, he hadn’t thought of that! “There _was_ a big second crop after ‘Diadems and Faggots,’” he mused aloud. “Of course. Wait and see,” said Vyse confidently.