t was the bourgeoisie that bought his books and poured its
gold into his money-sack, and from what little he knew of the bourgeoisie
it was not clear to him how it could possibly appreciate or comprehend
what he had written. His intrinsic beauty and power meant nothing to the
hundreds of thousands who were acclaiming him and buying his books. He
was the fad of the hour, the adventurer who had stormed Parnassus while
the gods nodded. The hundreds of thousands read him and acclaimed him
with the same brute non-understanding with which they had flung
themselves on Brissenden's "Ephemera" and torn it to pieces--a
wolf-rabble that fawned on him instead of fanging him. Fawn or fang, it
was all a matter of chance. One thing he knew with absolute certitude:
"Ephemera" was infinitely greater than anything he had done. It was
infinitely greater than anything he had in him. It was a poem of
centuries. Then the tribute the mob paid him was a sorry tribute indeed,
for that same mob had wallowed "Ephemera" into the mire. He sighed
heavily and with satisfaction. He was glad the last manuscript was sold
and that he would soon be done with it all.

CHAPTER XLIV

Mr. Morse met Martin in the office of the Hotel Metropole. Whether he
had happened there just casually, intent on other affairs, or whether he
had come there for the direct purpose of inviting him to dinner, Martin
never could quite make up his mind, though he inclined toward the second
hypothesis. At any rate, invited to dinner he was by Mr. Morse--Ruth's
father, who had forbidden him the house and broken off the engagement.

Martin was not angry. He was not even on his dignity. He tolerated Mr.
Morse, wondering the while how it felt to eat such humble pie. He did
not decline the invitation. Instead, he put it off with vagueness and
indefiniteness and inquired after the family, particularly after Mrs.
Morse and Ruth. He spoke her name without hesitancy, naturally, though
secretly surprised that he had had no inward quiver, no old, familiar
increase of pulse and warm surge of blood.

He had many invitations to dinner, some of which he accepted. Persons
got themselves introduced to him in order to invite him to dinner. And
he went on puzzling over the little thing that was becoming a great
thing. Bernard Higginbotham invited him to dinner. He puzzled the
harder. He remembered the days of his desperate starvation when no one
invited him to dinner.