o he left the room.

For a fortnight and more he remained in uncertainty. His life was very
uncomfortable, for Dora would only speak to him when necessity compelled
her; and there were two meetings with Marian, at which he had to act
his part as well as he could. At length came the expected letter. Very
nicely expressed, very friendly, very complimentary, but--a refusal.

He handed it to Dora across the breakfast-table, saying with a pinched
smile:

'Now you can look cheerful again. I am doomed.'

CHAPTER XXXV. FEVER AND REST

Milvain's skilful efforts notwithstanding, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' had no
success. By two publishers the book had been declined; the firm which
brought it out offered the author half profits and fifteen pounds on
account, greatly to Harold Biffen's satisfaction. But reviewers in
general were either angry or coldly contemptuous. 'Let Mr Biffen bear in
mind,' said one of these sages, 'that a novelist's first duty is to tell
a story.' 'Mr Biffen,' wrote another, 'seems not to understand that
a work of art must before everything else afford amusement.' 'A
pretentious book of the genre ennuyant,' was the brief comment of a
Society journal. A weekly of high standing began its short notice in a
rage: 'Here is another of those intolerable productions for which we
are indebted to the spirit of grovelling realism. This author, let it be
said, is never offensive, but then one must go on to describe his work
by a succession of negatives; it is never interesting, never profitable,
never--' and the rest. The eulogy in The West End had a few timid
echoes. That in The Current would have secured more imitators, but
unfortunately it appeared when most of the reviewing had already
been done. And, as Jasper truly said, only a concurrence of powerful
testimonials could have compelled any number of people to affect an
interest in this book. 'The first duty of a novelist is to tell a
story:' the perpetual repetition of this phrase is a warning to all
men who propose drawing from the life. Biffen only offered a slice of
biography, and it was found to lack flavour.

He wrote to Mrs Reardon: 'I cannot thank you enough for this very kind
letter about my book; I value it more than I should the praises of all
the reviewers in existence. You have understood my aim. Few people
will do that, and very few indeed could express it with such clear
conciseness.'

If Amy had but contented herself with a civil acknowledgment o