Cecil Le Moine said wearily in his high sweet voice, “Considering how few things do pay, I can’t imagine why any of you ever imagined _Unity_ would pay. I said from the first ... but no one listened to me; they never do. It’s not _Unity’s_ fault; it’s the fault of all the other papers. There are hundreds too many already; millions too many. They want thinning, like dandelions in a garden, and instead, like dandelions, they spread like a disease. Something ought to be done about it. I hate Acts of Parliament, but this is really a case for one. It is surely Mr. McKenna’s business to see to it; but I suppose he is kept too busy with all these vulgar disturbances. Anyhow, _we_ have done our best now to stem the tide. There will be one paper less. Perhaps some of the others will follow our example. Perhaps the _Record_ will. I met a woman in the train yesterday (between Hammersmith and Turnham Green it was), and I passed her my copy of _Unity_ to read. I thought she would like to read my Dramatic Criticism, so it was folded back at that, but she turned over the pages till she came to something about the Roman Catholic Church, by some Monsignor; then she handed it back to me and said she always took the _Record_. She obviously supposed _Unity_ to be a Popish organ. I hunted through it for some Dissenting sentiments, and found an article by a Welsh Calvinistic Methodist on Disestablishment, but it was too late; she had got out. But there it is, you see; she always took the _Record_. They all always take something. There are too many.... Well, anyhow, can’t we all ask each other to dinner one night, to wind ourselves up? A sort of funeral feast. Or ought the editors to ask the rest of us? Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.” “You should not,” Eddy said. “We were going to introduce that subject later on.” The company, having arranged the date of the dinner, and of the final business meeting, dispersed and got back to their several jobs. No one minded particularly about _Unity’s_ death, except Eddy. They were so used to that sort of thing, in the world of shifting fortunes in which writers for papers move.