nced Hubert in extremely level tones, "this habit of
publishing a well-known author's early works as new is one that has
grown far too common."

Then, letting himself go; "Early works? I'll show them! It is
libellous. I can prove my case to the hilt."

"I shouldn't worry with them," she said, feeling inadequate. "Perhaps
it will just make the book sell? We expected them to be all nasty,
didn't we?" She tried to speak brightly. Then an inspiration came to
her. "Perhaps there are some better ones?" she said. The great thing
would be to divert his mind. A law-case would be terrible. Nobody got
anything, ever, except the barristers.

He passed the heap of unopened papers scornfully across to her. "You
look at them," he said. "I don't know why I do or why one cares.
They're just a pack of failures. I always despise myself for looking
at their stuff at all." He opened a letter with unneeded violence.

With slow unpractised fingers Helena began to search for reviews. "No,
no," she said at each, until she thought (he was so quiet), that this
might be annoying him and went on with her task in silence.

Then her hands suddenly clutched the paper tightly, symbolic of her
effort to say nothing, for her eyes had caught the heading, _Was It
Worth While?_ The notice ran to half a column and this was an
important paper. She blessed her cleverness in having looked.

One moment later, she was blessing her forethought in not saying
anything. For this was the review:

"_Was It Worth While?_

"For some time now it has been an interesting question, with those who
can find any interest at all in the popular novels of to-day, as to
what exactly may be the peculiar touchstone of popularity. We can most
of us recall the names of two or three books which have run into their
quarter of a million copies, according to advertisements: and in
reading them hungrily for a solution of the problem, we have been more
than a little astounded by the crudeness of the fare submitted. We
have been unwilling, as good optimists of human nature, to believe that
mere literary vices can account for any library demand.

"Mr. Hubert Brett, perhaps unconsciously, has done us a good service.
We do not, let it be premised at once, refer to our gratitude for his
latest novel. Some of Mr. Brett's work, notably _Splendid Misery_ and
_The Bread of Idleness_, has been praised in these columns for the
sincere attempt which the author made in i