day if I worked my hardest. Now just listen; it deserves to be
chronicled for the encouragement of aspiring youth. I got up at 7.30,
and whilst I breakfasted I read through a volume I had to review. By
10.30 the review was written--three-quarters of a column of the Evening
Budget.'

'Who is the unfortunate author?' interrupted Maud, caustically.

'Not unfortunate at all. I had to crack him up; otherwise I couldn't
have done the job so quickly. It's the easiest thing in the world to
write laudation; only an inexperienced grumbler would declare it was
easier to find fault. The book was Billington's "Vagaries"; pompous
idiocy, of course, but he lives in a big house and gives dinners. Well,
from 10.30 to 11, I smoked a cigar and reflected, feeling that the day
wasn't badly begun. At eleven I was ready to write my Saturday causerie
for the Will o' the Wisp; it took me till close upon one o'clock, which
was rather too long. I can't afford more than an hour and a half
for that job. At one, I rushed out to a dirty little eating-house
in Hampstead Road. Was back again by a quarter to two, having in the
meantime sketched a paper for The West End. Pipe in mouth, I sat down
to leisurely artistic work; by five, half the paper was done; the
other half remains for to-morrow. From five to half-past I read four
newspapers and two magazines, and from half-past to a quarter to six I
jotted down several ideas that had come to me whilst reading. At six I
was again in the dirty eating-house, satisfying a ferocious hunger. Home
once more at 6.45, and for two hours wrote steadily at a long affair I
have in hand for The Current. Then I came here, thinking hard all the
way. What say you to this? Have I earned a night's repose?'

'And what's the value of it all?' asked Maud.

'Probably from ten to twelve guineas, if I calculated.'

'I meant, what was the literary value of it?' said his sister, with a
smile.

'Equal to that of the contents of a mouldy nut.'

'Pretty much what I thought.'

'Oh, but it answers the purpose,' urged Dora, 'and it does no one any
harm.'

'Honest journey-work!' cried Jasper. 'There are few men in London
capable of such a feat. Many a fellow could write more in quantity, but
they couldn't command my market. It's rubbish, but rubbish of a very
special kind, of fine quality.'

Marian had not yet spoken, save a word or two in reply to Jasper's
greeting; now and then she just glanced at him, but for the most part