eal money. Oh, you can do it! I've no fear
at all of you fizzling out. You simply go home and sit down and _write_.
I'll attend to the rest. And if you think Powells can struggle along
without you, I should be inclined to leave.'

'Surely not yet?' Henry protested.

'Well,' said Snyder in a different tone, looking up quickly from his
desk, 'perhaps you're right. Perhaps it will be as well to wait a bit,
and just make quite sure about the quality of the next book. Want any
money?'

'No,' said Henry.

'Because if you do, I can let you have whatever you need. And you can
carry off these piracies if you like.'

As he thoughtfully descended the stairways of Kenilworth Mansions,
Henry's mind was an arena of emotions. Undoubtedly, then, a
considerable number of hundreds of pounds were to come from _Love in
Babylon_, to say nothing of three thousand lost! Two thousand from the
next book! And after that, 'money, real money'! Mark Snyder had awakened
the young man's imagination. He had entered the parlour of Mark Snyder
with no knowledge of the Transatlantic glory of _Love in Babylon_ beyond
the fact, gathered from a newspaper cutting, that the book had attracted
attention in America; and in five minutes Mark had opened wide to him
the doors of Paradise. Or, rather, Mark had pointed out to him that the
doors of Paradise were open wide. Mr. Snyder, as Henry perceived, was
apt unwittingly to give the impression that he, and not his clients,
earned the wealth upon which he received ten per cent. commission. But
Henry was not for a single instant blind to the certitude that, if his
next book realized two thousand pounds, the credit would be due to
himself, and to no other person whatever. Henry might be tongue-tied in
front of Mark Snyder, but he was capable of estimating with some
precision their relative fundamental importance in the scheme of things.

In the clerks' office Henry had observed numerous tin boxes inscribed
in white paint with the names of numerous eminent living authors. He
wondered if Mr. Snyder played to all these great men the same role--half
the frank and bluff uncle, half the fairy-godmother. He was surprised
that he could remember no word said about literature, ideas, genius, or
even talent. No doubt Mr. Snyder took such trifles for granted. No doubt
he began where they left off.

He sighed. He was dazzled by golden visions, but beneath the dizzy and
delicious fabric of the dream, eating away at the fou