"I'm sorry," said he, "very sorry, but my readers are quite unanimous. From what I can learn, it seems to me you have been too earnest. And also, rather sarcastic in certain strictures against society. My dear fellow, that won't do. Never blame society,--it buys books! Now if you could write a smart love-story, slightly _risqué_,--even a little more than _risqué_ for that matter; that is the sort of thing that suits the present age." "Pardon me," I interposed somewhat wearily--"but are you sure you judge the public taste correctly?" He smiled a bland smile of indulgent amusement at what he no doubt considered my ignorance in putting such a query. "Of course I am sure,"--he replied--"It is my business to know the public taste as thoroughly as I know my own pocket. Understand me,--I don't suggest that you should write a book on any positively indecent subject,--that can be safely left to the 'New' woman,"--and he laughed,--"but I assure you high-class fiction doesn't sell. The critics don't like it, to begin with. What goes down with them and with the public is a bit of sensational realism told in terse newspaper English. Literary English,--Addisonian English,--is a mistake." "And I am also a mistake I think," I said with a forced smile--"At any rate if what you say be true, I must lay down the pen and try another trade. I am old-fashioned enough to consider Literature as the highest of all professions, and I would rather not join in with those who voluntarily degrade it." He gave me a quick side-glance of mingled incredulity and depreciation. "Well, well!" he finally observed--"you are a little quixotic. That will wear off. Will you come on to my club and dine with me?"