“I have put my heart and soul into this book, Darling,” Dick burst out. “That is Besant’s advice to young novelists, you know, and I have followed it. ‘Drain yourself dry,’ he says, in substance; ‘more heart and soul will come to you in time for the next one.’ I think I have done the best I am capable of.” “Well, if you are going to throw Besant at me,” Darling retorted, “I will give you some more of him: ‘Always watch how it is looking from before the footlights,’ he says. That is, see how it appears to the audience--to the reader. You know what your meaning is, but do you make it clear and entertaining to the reader? The probabilities are that you don’t in a first novel. “No; I am not trying to discourage you,” he went on, seeing the disappointed look on Dick’s face. “But I know you have your hopes set very high on this book, and I want to prepare you for what may happen. You must remember that not every good newspaper writer can write a good novel. Besides, how many writers have made a success of a first novel? You don’t need half your fingers to count them on. However, it is done, and the publishers will have it read by men who are good judges, and they will form a cool-headed--perhaps I might say a cool-blooded--opinion of it. That is where the publisher is the young writer’s best friend, preventing him often from making a fool of himself in print. It will probably go through the hands of several readers, for I think it will hardly be bad enough to be condemned positively by the first man. But now that you have your article manufactured, what are you going to do with it? Where is your market?” “I have written to Brounlow & Company, the publishers,” Dick replied, “(they publish The Illustrated Weekly, you know, so they are familiar with my work), telling them what I have, and asking them to examine it. And they have answered that they will be happy to see it. That was the proper way to go at it, wasn’t it?” “Yes, that is the usual process.” “And the manuscript is going to them to-morrow, and then we’ll see what we’ll see.” With the novel out of the house Dick gave all his time to newspaper work again, and it seemed so easy and so pleasant after the long daily tasks he had been doing! It was profitable too, for with his fifteen dollars a column he made more money than he had made on salary. He could not reasonably expect to hear from the novel within three or four weeks, but at the expiration of a fortnight he began to watch his daily letters for one of the familiar envelopes of Brounlow & Company. And at length it came, and Dick punished his own impatience by looking for some time at the outside before he tore it open. There was no telling what grand offer for the manuscript the letter might contain. “We have read your novel with much pleasure,” the letter said, “and we regret that we do not find it suited to our present needs. The manuscript is returned this day by registered mail.”