you?" Bowring was a man of few words; he said, "Blaze away, my boy." And
I tried to. But it was no use; I had got out of the style; my writing
was too literary by a long chalk. For a whole year I deliberately strove
to write badly, but Bowring was so pained with the feebleness of my
efforts that at last he sternly bade me avoid his sight. "What the
devil," he roared one day, "do you mean by sending me stories about
men and women? You ought to know better than that, a fellow of your
experience!" So I had to give it up, and there was an end of my career
as a writer of fiction.'

He shook his head sadly.

'Biffen,' he continued, 'when I first made his acquaintance, had an idea
of writing for the working classes; and what do you think he was going
to offer them? Stories about the working classes! Nay, never hang your
head for it, old boy; it was excusable in the days of your youth. Why,
Mr Reardon, as no doubt you know well enough, nothing can induce working
men or women to read stories that treat of their own world. They are
the most consumed idealists in creation, especially the women. Again
and again work-girls have said to me: "Oh, I don't like that book; it's
nothing but real life."'

'It's the fault of women in general,' remarked Reardon.

'So it is, but it comes out with delicious naivete in the working
classes. Now, educated people like to read of scenes that are familiar
to them, though I grant you that the picture must be idealised if you're
to appeal to more than one in a thousand. The working classes detest
anything that tries to represent their daily life. It isn't because that
life is too painful; no, no; it's downright snobbishness. Dickens goes
down only with the best of them, and then solely because of his strength
in farce and his melodrama.'

Presently the three went out together, and had dinner at an a la mode
beef shop. Mr Sykes ate little, but took copious libations of porter at
twopence a pint. When the meal was over he grew taciturn.

'Can you walk westwards?' Biffen asked.

'I'm afraid not, afraid not. In fact I have an appointment at two--at
Aldgate station.'

They parted from him.

'Now he'll go and soak till he's unconscious,' said Biffen. 'Poor
fellow! Pity he ever earns anything at all. The workhouse would be
better, I should think.'

'No, no! Let a man drink himself to death rather. I have a horror of the
workhouse. Remember the clock at Marylebone I used to tell you about.'

'U