like Reardon and a man
like me. He is the old type of unpractical artist; I am the literary man
of 1882. He won't make concessions, or rather, he can't make them;
he can't supply the market. I--well, you may say that at present I
do nothing; but that's a great mistake, I am learning my business.
Literature nowadays is a trade. Putting aside men of genius, who may
succeed by mere cosmic force, your successful man of letters is your
skilful tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the markets; when one
kind of goods begins to go off slackly, he is ready with something new
and appetising. He knows perfectly all the possible sources of income.
Whatever he has to sell he'll get payment for it from all sorts of
various quarters; none of your unpractical selling for a lump sum to a
middleman who will make six distinct profits. Now, look you: if I had
been in Reardon's place, I'd have made four hundred at least out of
"The Optimist"; I should have gone shrewdly to work with magazines and
newspapers and foreign publishers, and--all sorts of people. Reardon
can't do that kind of thing, he's behind his age; he sells a manuscript
as if he lived in Sam Johnson's Grub Street. But our Grub Street of
to-day is quite a different place: it is supplied with telegraphic
communication, it knows what literary fare is in demand in every part of
the world, its inhabitants are men of business, however seedy.'

'It sounds ignoble,' said Maud.

'I have nothing to do with that, my dear girl. Now, as I tell you, I am
slowly, but surely, learning the business. My line won't be novels;
I have failed in that direction, I'm not cut out for the work. It's a
pity, of course; there's a great deal of money in it. But I have plenty
of scope. In ten years, I repeat, I shall be making my thousand a year.'

'I don't remember that you stated the exact sum before,' Maud observed.

'Let it pass. And to those who have shall be given. When I have a decent
income of my own, I shall marry a woman with an income somewhat larger,
so that casualties may be provided for.'

Dora exclaimed, laughing:

'It would amuse me very much if the Reardons got a lot of money at Mr
Yule's death--and that can't be ten years off, I'm sure.'

'I don't see that there's any chance of their getting much,' replied
Jasper, meditatively. 'Mrs Reardon is only his niece. The man's brother
and sister will have the first helping, I suppose. And then, if it comes
to the second generation,