“But suppose I have toothache on quarter-day, and the consolation you offer for that date is consolation to a man who can’t pay his rent? Seriously, Branstone, am I behind the scenes in this office, or do you never drop the showman? I admit you’re in the pi-market, and you’ve dressed the pi-man’s part and you’ve got his patter, too, but I don’t know that you need exercise it on me. This stock of yours looks dire,” he commented, strolling round the office. “I suppose it’s the stuff that sells?” “My business,” said Sam, “is founded on a rock.” “I came in here to sell you a fortune,” said Stewart. “If you’re going to talk cant at me, I’ll take the fortune to a London publisher. Your business may be founded on a rock, but the name of the rock is the ‘Social Evil.’” “The word rock,” said Sam, with a twinkle in his eye, “is also used for a kind of toffee.” “Well, now that I know you’re sane, I’ll talk to you. And I’ll talk toffee, too I didn’t think in the days of my earnest youth that I should come to this, but you never know what debt will do to a man. I’ve written a novel. At least, it isn’t a novel, it’s an outrage on decency. It’s a violent assault on the emotions. It’s the sort of thing I deserve shooting for writing. Treacle is bitter compared with it, and it does not contain one word of literature. It is a cast-iron certainty.” “I must read it,” said Sam. “You’re growing distrustful,” said Stewart sadly. “I don’t buy pigs in pokes, even when they’re yours,” said Sam. “Come along in a couple of days.” He read the novel, and was ready for Stewart when he came. “I have taken the liberty,” he said, “of marking some passages in this manuscript which you may care to alter.” “Oh? I know it’s mawkish, but I don’t believe there is a limit to what they’ll stand--and like.” “I refer particularly to the character you have called Hetaera.” “But only once. After that she’s called Hetty.” “Hetty,” said Sam severely, “will have to be cut out. She is an impure woman.” “Even the most popular of novels should bear some relationship to life.” “If you wish me to publish this one, Hetty must go. Branstones have a reputation to sustain.” “Good God!” said Stewart. “Hetty is the one oasis of truth in a desert of sloppy sentimentality. She’s true because I happen to know her.” “That is nothing to your credit, Stewart.” Stewart stared. “Are you pulling my leg, Sam, or is this really serious?” “Why should you doubt my seriousness when I ask that fiction should be devoid of offence?” “Don’t you mean devoid of truth?” He recovered his temper and his perspective. After all, he was very short of money. “All right, Sam,” he said. “Edit me. Censor me. I thought I knew things, but there are deeps below the lowest depths, and you have reached them. I surrender. What are the terms?” Sam offered terms which were quite generous. He might want Stewart again.