houses which had slowly risen into commanding
stability. He had no great capital, but the stroke of fortune which had
wedded him to a popular novelist enabled him to count on steady profit
from one source, and boundless faith in his own judgment urged him to an
initial outlay which made the prudent shake their heads. He talked much
of 'the new era,' foresaw revolutions in publishing and book-selling,
planned every week a score of untried ventures which should appeal to
the democratic generation just maturing; in the meantime, was ready to
publish anything which seemed likely to get talked about.

The May number of The Current, in its article headed 'Books of the
Month,' devoted about half a page to 'English Prose in the Nineteenth
Century.' This notice was a consummate example of the flippant style of
attack. Flippancy, the most hopeless form of intellectual vice, was a
characterising note of Mr Fadge's periodical; his monthly comments on
publications were already looked for with eagerness by that growing
class of readers who care for nothing but what can be made matter of
ridicule. The hostility of other reviewers was awkward and ineffectual
compared with this venomous banter, which entertained by showing that in
the book under notice there was neither entertainment nor any other kind
of interest. To assail an author without increasing the number of his
readers is the perfection of journalistic skill, and The Current, had
it stood alone, would fully have achieved this end. As it was, silence
might have been better tactics. But Mr Fadge knew that his enemy would
smart under the poisoned pin-points, and that was something gained.

On the day that The Current appeared, its treatment of Alfred Yule was
discussed in Mr Jedwood's private office. Mr Quarmby, who had intimate
relations with the publisher, happened to look in just as a young man
(one of Mr Jedwood's 'readers') was expressing a doubt whether Fadge
himself was the author of the review.

'But there's Fadge's thumb-mark all down the page,' cried Mr Quarmby.

'He inspired the thing, of course; but I rather think it was written by
that fellow Milvain.'

'Think so?' asked the publisher.

'Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland's novel is his
writing, and I have reasons for suspecting that he did Yule's book as
well.'

'Smart youngster, that,' remarked Mr Jedwood. 'Who is he, by-the-bye?'

'Somebody's illegitimate son, I believe,' replied the