"It means"--replied he--"that I am going to see Mr McWhing this morning. I have an appointment with him at twelve. You, as Geoffrey Tempest, the author of the book Mr McWhing is going to criticise and make a 'boom' of, could not possibly put your name to such a cheque. It would not be 'good form'--it might crop up afterwards and so betray 'the secrets of the prison-house.' But for me it is another affair. I am going to 'pose' as your businessman--your 'literary agent' who pockets ten per cent. of the profits and wants to make a 'big thing' out of you, and I'm going to talk the matter over with the perfectly practical McWhing who has, like every true Scot, a keen eye for the main chance. Of course it will be in confidence,--strict confidence!" and he laughed--"It's all a question of business you know,--in these commercial days, literature has become a trade like everything else, and even critics only work for what pays them. As indeed why should they not?" "Do you mean to tell me McWhing will take that five hundred?" I asked dubiously. "I mean to tell you nothing of the kind. I would not put the matter so coarsely for the world! This money is not for McWhing,--it is for a literary charity." "Indeed! I thought you had an idea perhaps of offering a bribe...." "Bribe! Good Heavens! Bribe a critic! Impossible, my good Geoffrey!--such a thing was never heard of--never, never, never!" and he shook his head and rolled up his eyes with infinite solemnity--"No no! Press people never take money for anything--not even for 'booming' a new gold-mining company,--not even for putting a notice of a fashionable concert into the Morning Post. Everything in the English press is the just expression of pure and lofty sentiment, believe me! This little cheque is for a charity of which Mr McWhing is chief patron,--you see the Civil List pensions all go by favour to the wrong persons nowadays; to the keeping of lunatic versifiers and retired actresses who never could act--the actual bona-fide 'genius' never gets anything out of Government, and moreover would scorn to take a farthing from that penurious body, which grudges him anything higher than a money-recognition. It is as great an insult to offer a beggarly pension of fifty or a hundred pounds a year to a really great writer as to give him a knighthood,--and we cannot fall much lower than to be a knight, as knights go. The present five hundred pounds will help to relieve certain 'poor and proud' but pressing literary cases known to McWhing alone!" His expression at this moment was so extraordinary, that I entirely failed to fathom it. "I have no doubt I shall be able to represent the benevolent and respectable literary agent to perfection--of course I shall insist on my ten per cent.!"--and he began laughing again. "But I can't stop to discuss the matter now with you--I'm off. I promised McWhing to be with him at twelve o'clock precisely, and it's now half-past-eleven.