"It is a pity you should appeal to it then;"--he responded with a smile--"If you think so little of the public why give it anything of your brain? It is not worthy of so rare a boon! Come, come Tempest,--do not join in the snarl of unsuccessful authors who take refuge, when marked unsaleable, in pouring out abuse on the public. The public is the author's best friend and truest critic. But if you prefer to despise it, in company with all the very little literature-mongers who form a mutual admiration society, I tell you what to do,--print just twenty copies of your book and present these to the leading reviewers, and when they have written you up (as they will do--I'll take care of that) let your publisher advertise to the effect that the 'First and Second Large Editions' of the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, are exhausted, one hundred thousand copies having been sold in a week! If that does not waken up the world in general, I shall be much surprised!" I laughed,--I was gradually getting into a better humour. "It would be quite as fair a plan of action as is adopted by many modern publishers," I said--"The loud hawking of literary wares now-a-days reminds me of the rival shouting of costermongers in a low neighbourhood. But I will not go quite so far,--I'll win my fame legitimately if I can." "You can't!" declared Lucio with a serene smile--"It's impossible. You are too rich. That of itself is not legitimate in Literature, which great art generally elects to wear poverty in its button-hole as a flower of grace. The fight cannot be equal in such circumstances. The fact that you are a millionaire must weigh the balance apparently in your favour for a time. The world cannot resist money. If I, for example, became an author, I should probably with my wealth and influence, burn up every one else's laurels. Suppose that a desperately poor man comes out with a book at the same time as you do, he will have scarcely the ghost of a chance against you. He will not be able to advertise in your lavish style,--nor will he see his way to dine the critics as you can. And if he should happen to have more genius than you, and you succeed, your success will _not_ be legitimate. But after all, that does not matter much--in Art, if in nothing else, things always right themselves." I made no immediate reply, but went over to my table, rolled up my corrected proofs and directed them to the printers,--then ringing the bell I gave the packet to my man, Morris, bidding him post it at once. This done, I turned again towards Lucio and saw that he still sat by the fire, but that his attitude was now one of brooding melancholy, and that he had covered his eyes with one hand on which the glow from the flames shone red. I regretted the momentary irritation I had felt against him for telling me unwelcome truths,--and I touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Are _you_ in the dumps now Lucio?" I said--"I'm afraid my depression has proved infectious."