sness
on the side of the reader. The parcel came back in a week, with a note
of regret that the novel was not suitable. Only one of BROWZER'S pieces
of adhesive paper had been removed, but the others were carefully
initialled. A modest author would have concluded that his opening
chapters condemned him, but BROWZER'S wrath against mankind only burned
the more fiercely. He removed his traps, however, and sent _Wilton's
Wooing_ the round of the Row. It always came back, "returning like the
peewit," at uncertain intervals. It was really a remarkable manuscript,
for it was written in black ink, blue ink, red ink, pencil, and
stylograph; moreover, most of it was inscribed on the margins, the
original copy having been erased, in favour of improved versions.
Finally BROWZER discovered a publisher who would take _Wilton's Wooing_,
on conditions that the author should pay L150 for preliminary expenses
(exclusive of advertising, for which a special charge was to be made),
would guarantee the sale of 300 copies, and would accept half profits on
the net results of the transaction.

The work saw the light, and, externally, it certainly did look very like
a novel. The reviews, which BROWZER read with frenzied excitement, also
looked very like reviews of novels. They were usually about two inches
in length, and generally ended by saying that "Mr. BROWZER has still
much to learn." Some of them condensed BROWZER'S plot into about eight
lines, in this manner:--

"He was a yearning psychologist--she was a suburban flirt. He sighed,
and analysed; she listened, and yawned. Finally, she went on the stage,
and he compiled this record of the stirring transaction."

But at last there came a longer criticism of _Wilton's Wooing_ in the
_Erechtheum_. Somebody took BROWZER to pieces, averring that "Mr.
BROWZER has neither grammar" (here followed a string of examples of
BROWZER'S idioms) "nor humour," (here came instances of his wit and
fancy), "nor taste" (again reinforced by specimens), "nor even knowledge
of the French language, which he habitually massacres." (Here followed
_a l'outrance, bete noir, soubriquet_, all our old friends.) Finally,
Mr. BROWZER was informed that many fields of honourable distinction
might be open to him, but that a novelist he could never be.

The wrath of BROWZER was magnificent. He went about among his friends,
who told him that the critique was clearly by that brute ST. CLAIR; they
knew his hand, they said; a c