tters from you on every conceivable topic----

PHILIP.

[_Grinning._] _Do_ you!

ROOPE.

[_Joining_ PHILIP.] Oh, my dear Phil, I entreat you, feed the papers!
It isn't as if you hadn't talent; you _have_. Advertising _minus_
talent goes a long way; advertising _plus_ talent is irresistible. Feed
the papers. The more you do for them, the more they'll do for you.
_Quid pro quo._ To the advertiser shall advertisement be given.
Newspaper men are the nicest chaps in the world. Feed them gratis with
bright and amusin' "copy," as you term it, and they'll love and protect
you for ever.

PHILIP.

Not for ever, Robbie. Whom the press loves die young.

ROOPE.

It's fickle, you mean--some day it'll turn and rend you? Perhaps.
Still, if you make hay while the sun shines----

PHILIP.

The sun! You don't call _that_ the sun! [_Disdainfully._] P'ssh!

ROOPE.

[_Leaving him._] Oh, I've no patience with you! [_Spluttering._] Upon
my word, your hatred of publicity is--is--is--is morbid. It's worse
than morbid--it's Victorian. [_Sitting in the chair by the small
table._] There! I can't say anything severer.

PHILIP.

[_Advancing._] Yes, but wait a moment, Robbie. Who says I have a hatred
of publicity? _I_ haven't said anything so absurd. Don't I write for
the public?

ROOPE.

Exactly!

PHILIP.

[_Standing near_ ROOPE.] I have no dislike for publicity--for fame. By
George, sir, I covet it, if I can win it honestly and decently!

ROOPE.

[_Shrugging his shoulders._] Ah----!

PHILIP.

And I humble myself before the men and women of my craft--and they are
many--who succeed in winning it in that fashion, or who are content to
remain obscure. But for the rest--the hustlers of the pen, the seekers
after mere blatant applause, the pickers-up of cheap popularity--I've a
profound contempt for them and their methods.

ROOPE.

You can't deny the ability of some of 'em.

PHILIP.

Deny it! Of course I don't deny it. But no amount of ability, of genius
if you will, absolves the follower of any art from the obligation of
conducting himsel