"All the English (not foreign) editors and journalists!" said Lucio with an air of pious rapture--"and why? Because they are so good, so just, so unprejudiced! Their foreign brethren will be reserved for the eternal dance of devils of course--but the Britishers will pace the golden streets singing Alleluia! I assure you I consider British journalists generally the noblest examples of incorruptibility in the world--they come next to the clergy as representatives of virtue, and exponents of the three evangelical counsels,--voluntary poverty, chastity, and obedience!" Such mockery glittered in his eyes, that the light in them might have been the reflection of clashing steel. "Be consoled, Geoffrey," he resumed--"your fame is honourably won. You have simply, through me, approached one critic who writes in about twenty newspapers and influences others to write in other twenty,--that critic being a noble creature, (all critics are noble creatures) has a pet 'society' for the relief of authors in need (a noble scheme you will own) and to this charity I subscribe out of pure benevolence, five hundred pounds. Moved by my generosity and consideration, (particularly as I do not ask what becomes of the five hundred) McWhing 'obliges' me in a little matter. The editors of the papers for which he writes accept him as a wise and witty personage; _they_ know nothing about the charity or the cheque,--it is not necessary for them to know. The whole thing is really quite a reasonable business arrangement;--it is only a self-tormenting analyst like you who would stop to think of such a trifle a second time." "If McWhing really and conscientiously admired my book for itself;" I began. "Why should you imagine he does not?" asked Lucio--"Myself, I believe that he is a perfectly sincere and honorable man. I think he means all he says and writes. I consider that if he had found your work not worthy of his commendation, he would have sent me back that cheque for five hundred pounds, torn across in a noble scorn!" And with this, throwing himself back in his chair, he laughed till the tears came into his eyes. But I could not laugh; I was too weary and depressed. A heavy sense of despair was on my mind; I felt that the hope which had cheered me in my days of poverty,--the hope of winning real Fame, so widely different a thing to notoriety, had vanished. There was some quality in the subtle glory which could not be won by either purchase or influence. The praise of the press could not give it. Mavis Clare, working for her bread, had it,--I, with millions of money, had not. Like a fool I had thought to buy it; I had yet to learn that all the best, greatest, purest and worthiest things in life are beyond all market-value and that the gifts of the gods are not for sale.