um of men would be pleased to act a hero's part, if it could be
done without risk or effort; and the plainest of women has the capacity
to enjoy, at least in fancy, a greater variety in the affair of love
than real life is likely to furnish. Novels give these unsatisfied
souls their opportunity. That is why fiction is so popular. You must
take advantage of the laws of the human mind if you want to be a
successful author. Write a novel."

This protracted remark was patiently received by the little company of
friends, who were sitting on a rocky eminence of the York Harbor Golf
Links (near the seventh hole, which was called, for obvious reasons,
"Goetterdaemmerung"). My Uncle Peter's right to make long speeches was
conceded. In him they did not seem criminal, because they were
evidently necessary. Moreover, in this case, the majority agreed with
him, and therefore were not tempted to interrupt.

"A novel," said the Publisher, "will bear ten times as much advertising
as any other kind of book. This is a fact."

"A novel," said the Critic, "is the most highly developed type of
literature. Therefore, it is the fittest to survive. This is a theory.
And I should like----"

But the Critic did not share the Philosopher's long-speech prerogative.
His audience was inclined to limit him to the time when he could be
pungent.

The Business Man broke in upon him: "A novel is good because it is just
plain reading--no theories or explanations--or at least, if there are
any, you can skip them."

"Novels," said the Doctor of Divinity solemnly, "are valuable because
they give an insight into life. I deprecate the vice of excessive
novel-reading in young persons. But for myself I wish that there were
more really interesting novels to read. Most of the old ones I have
read already."

A smile flickered around the circle. "What do you call old?" asked the
Cynic. "Have you read 'The Vulgarities of Antoinette'?"

"Nonsense," said the Publisher; "some novels grow as old in a
twelvemonth as others do in a decade. A book is not really aged until
it ceases to be advertised. 'The Celestial Triplets,' for example. But
fortunately it is a poor year that does not produce at least three new
novelists of distinction."

"For my part," said the True Story Teller, seated on her throne among
the rocks and dispensing gentle influence like the silent sweetness of
the summer afternoon, "for my part, I am not sure that fiction is the
only kind of lite