"A Pill--yes," I said sadly.... Genius and a Pill were, alas, different things. "But," I added more cheerfully, "you can never tell what the public will do. They _might_ buy it--there's no telling except by trying--" "Well, Schofield thinks they will," she informed me with decision. "I dare say he does, if he's an artist. They mostly do," I replied. "He doesn't think Michael will ever be popular," she emphasised the adjective slightly, "but he does think he has a considerable following if they could only be discovered." I sighed. All artists think that. They will accept any compromise except the one that is offered to them.... I tried to explain to Maschka that in this world we have to stand to the chances of all or nothing. "You've got to be one thing or the other--I don't know that it matters very much which," I said. "There's Michael's way, and there's... mine. That's all. However, we'll try it. All you can say to me, and more, I'll say to a publisher for you. But he'll probably wink at me." For a moment she was silent. Then she said: "Schofield rather fancies one publisher." "Oh? Who's he?" I asked. She mentioned a name. If I knew anything at all of business she might as well have offered _The Life of Michael Andriaovsky_ to The Religious Tract Society at once.... "Hm!... And has Mr. Schofield any other suggestions?" I inquired. He had. Several. I saw that Schofield's position would have to be defined before we went any further. "Hm!" I said again. "Well, I shall have to rely on Schofield for those five years in which I saw little of Michael; but unless Schofield knows more of publishing than I do, and can enforce a better contract and a larger sum on account than I can, I really think, Maschka, that you'll do better to leave things to me. For one thing, it's only fair to me. My name hasn't much of an artistic value nowadays, but it has a very considerable commercial one, and my worth to publishers isn't as a writer of the Lives of Geniuses." I could see she didn't like it; but that couldn't be helped. It had to be so. Then, as we sat for a time in silence over the fire, I noticed again how like her brother she was. She was not, it was true, much like him as he had been on that last visit of mine to him ... and I sighed as I remembered that visit. The dreadful scene had come back to me.... On account, I suppose, of the divergence of our paths, I had not even heard of his illness until almost the finish. Immediately I had hastened to the Hampstead "Home," only to find him already in the agony. He had not been too far gone to recognise me, however, for he had muttered something brokenly about "knowing better," that a spasm had interrupted. Besides myself, only Maschka had been there; and I had been thankful for the summons that had called her for a moment out of the room. I had still retained his already cold hand; his brow had worked with that dreadful struggle; and his eyes had been closed.