let me ask her to send
an invitation for both of you. I'm sure you'd like her, Mrs Reardon.
There's a good deal of humbug about her, it's true, but some solid
qualities as well. No one has a word to say against her. And it's a
splendid advertisement to have her for a friend. She'll talk about your
books and articles till all is blue.'

Amy gave a questioning look at her husband. But Reardon moved in an
uncomfortable way.

'We'll see about it,' he said. 'Some day, perhaps.'

'Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: I happen to
know a man who reads for him.'

'Heavens!' cried Reardon. 'Who don't you know?'

'The simplest thing in the world. At present it's a large part of my
business to make acquaintances. Why, look you; a man who has to live
by miscellaneous writing couldn't get on without a vast variety of
acquaintances. One's own brain would soon run dry; a clever fellow knows
how to use the brains of other people.'

Amy listened with an unconscious smile which expressed keen interest.

'Oh,' pursued Jasper, 'when did you see Whelpdale last?'

'Haven't seen him for a long time.'

'You don't know what he's doing? The fellow has set up as a "literary
adviser." He has an advertisement in The Study every week. "To Young
Authors and Literary Aspirants"--something of the kind. "Advice given on
choice of subjects, MSS. read, corrected, and recommended to publishers.
Moderate terms." A fact! And what's more, he made six guineas in the
first fortnight; so he says, at all events. Now that's one of the finest
jokes I ever heard. A man who can't get anyone to publish his own books
makes a living by telling other people how to write!'

'But it's a confounded swindle!'

'Oh, I don't know. He's capable of correcting the grammar of "literary
aspirants," and as for recommending to publishers--well, anyone can
recommend, I suppose.'

Reardon's indignation yielded to laughter.

'It's not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing.'

'Not at all,' assented Jasper.

Shortly after this he looked at his watch.

'I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before I can go to
my truckle-bed, and it'll take me three hours at least.

Good-bye, old man. Let me know when your story's finished, and we'll
talk about it. And think about Mrs Boston Wright; oh, and about that
review in The Current. I wish you'd let me do it. Talk it over with your
guide, philosopher, and friend.'

He indicate