"Dear me, Mr Tempest, you are not the only writer who has been 'boomed' by the press and who nevertheless does not sell,"--he exclaimed--"No one can account for the caprices of the public; they are entirely beyond the most cautious publisher's control or calculation. Miss Clare is a sore subject to many authors besides yourself,--she always 'takes' and no one can help it. I sympathize with you in the matter heartily, but I am not to blame. At any rate the reviewers are all with you,--their praise has been almost unanimous. Now Mavis Clare's 'Differences,' though to my thinking a very brilliant and powerful book, has been literally cut to pieces whenever it has been noticed at all,--and yet the public go for her and don't go for you. It isn't my fault. You see people have got Compulsory Education now, and I'm afraid they begin to mistrust criticism, preferring to form their own independent opinions; if this is so, of course it will be a terrible thing, because the most carefully organized clique in the world will be powerless. Everything has been done for you that can be done, Mr Tempest,--I am sure I regret as much as yourself that the result has not been all you expected or desired. Many authors would not care so much for the public approval; the applause of cultured journalism such as you have obtained, would be more than sufficient for them." I laughed bitterly. 'The applause of cultured journalism!' I thought I knew something of the way in which such applause was won. Almost I began to hate my millions,--golden trash that could only secure me the insincere flattery of fair-weather friends,--and that could not give me fame,--such fame as has sometimes been grasped in a moment by a starving and neglected genius, who in the very arms of death, succeeds in mastering the world. One day in a fit of disappointment and petulance I said to Lucio-- "You have not kept all your promises, my friend!--you told me you could give me fame!" He looked at me curiously. "Did I? Well,--and are you not famous?" "No. I am merely notorious," I retorted. He smiled. "The word fame, my good Geoffrey, traced to its origin means 'a breath'--the breath of popular adulation. You have that--for your wealth." "But not for my work!" "You have the praise of the reviewers!" "What is that worth!" "Everything!" he answered smiling--"In the reviewers' own opinion!" I was silent.