"Little by little he began to enthuse: I had kindled his pride--something that had lain dormant for years--and the warmth of its revival soon sent the blood of a new hope tingling through his veins. He now confessed that he _had_ always wanted to write sustained fiction without ever having had either the opportunity or the strength to begin. Inspired by my efforts, others of his friends at home joined in the bracing up, recognizing as I had done the charm and quality of the man--his wit and tenderness, his philosophy and knowledge of the life about him. They forgot, of course, as had I, that in fiction--and in all imaginative literature for that matter--something more is required than either a knowledge of men or the ability for turning out phrases. As an actor steps in between the dramatist and the audience--visualizing and vitalizing the text by deft gestures, telling emphases, and those silent pauses often more effective than the speech itself--so must the author with his pen: in other words, he must infuse into the written word something that presents to you in print that which the actor makes you _see_ beyond the footlights. This, however, you men know all about, so I won't dilate on it. "Well, he started in and threw himself into the task with a grip and energy of which I had not thought him capable. It took him about six months to finish the novel; then he came East and laid the manuscript in my hands. We shut ourselves up in my study and went over it. When I suggested that a page dragged, he would snatch it from my hand, square himself on my hearth-rug with his back to the fire, and read it aloud, pumping his personality into every line. Conversations which, when I read them, had seemed long-winded and commonplace took on a new meaning. When he had gone to bed I reread the passages and again my heart sank. "The publisher came next, I delivering the manuscript myself with all the good things I could say about it. "At the end of the week that ominous-looking white coffin of an envelope in which so many of our hopes are buried, and which most of us know so well, was laid on my study table, and with it the short obituary notice: 'Not adapted to our uses.' "I was afraid to tell him, and didn't. I arranged a dinner instead for the three of us--the editor, whom he had not yet met, being one. During the meal not a word was said about the rejected novel. I had cautioned the author--and, of course, the editor never brought his shop to a dinner-table. "After the cigars I took up the manuscript and the discussion opened. The editor was very frank, very kind, and very helpful. He had wanted to publish it, but there were long passages--essays, really--in which the reader's galloping interest would get stalled. Experience had taught him that it was slow-downs like these that mired so much of modern fiction. "'Which passages, for instance,' I asked rather casually. "'Well, the part which--Hand me the manuscript and I will----'