many
remarkable books are published in the course of a season that the
assistants do not attempt to remember them; and so many friends of
remarkable young authors wish to know why the works of these remarkable
young men are not stacked in the window that the assistants have learned
to look listlessly at the people who make the demands. Ninian bought
three copies of the novel, and sent one to his mother and one to the
Headmaster of Rumpell's and one to his uncle, the Dean of Exebury. "That
ought to help the sales, Quinny!" he said. "I bought 'em in three
different shops, and I stuffed the chaps that I'd been to other places
to get it, but found they were sold out!"

"That'll make two copies Mrs. Graham'll have," Henry replied. "I've sent
one to her to-day...."

"Well, she can give the other one to Mary," said Ninian.

The book was not a success. Including the number sold to the libraries,
only three hundred and seventy-five copies were sold, but the financial
failure of the book did not greatly depress Henry, for he had the praise
of his friends to console him. His father's letter had heartened him
almost as much as the review in the _Times_. "_It's great stuff_," he
wrote, "_and I'm proud of you. I didn't think you could improve it so
much as you have done. Hurry up and do another one!_"

His second book, "Broken Spears," was in proof before Sir Geoffrey
Mundane decided to produce "The Magic Casement," and for a while he was
at a loose end. He could not think of a subject for another story,
although he had invented a good title: Turbulence. He sat at his desk,
forcing himself to write chapters that ended ingloriously. He wrote
pages and pages, and in the evening threw them into the wastepaper
basket. "My God," he said to himself one morning, when he had been
sitting at his desk for over an hour without writing a word, "I believe
I've lost the power to write!"

He got up, terrified, and went to Gilbert's room.

"Hilloa, bloke!" said Gilbert, looking round at him as he entered.

"Are you busy, Gilbert?" he asked.

"I'm kidding myself that I am, but between ourselves, Quinny, I'm
reading Gerald Luke's last book. That chap's a poet. He's as good as
Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Listen to this!..."

But Henry did not wish to listen to Gerald Luke's poems.

"Gilbert," he said, "I believe I'm done!"

"Done?" Gilbert exclaimed, putting down the book of poems.

"Yes. I don't believe I shall ever do another book...."

"