my would have been saved. The
Philistines are right: a man has no business to marry unless he has a
secured income equal to all natural demands. I behaved with the grossest
selfishness. I might have known that such happiness was never meant for
me.'

'Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you will ever
be able to write again?'

'In awful seriousness, I doubt it,' replied Reardon, with haggard face.

'It strikes me as extraordinary. In your position I should work as I
never had done before.'

'Because you are the kind of man who is roused by necessity. I am
overcome by it. My nature is feeble and luxurious. I never in my life
encountered and overcame a practical difficulty.'

'Yes; when you got the work at the hospital.'

'All I did was to write a letter, and chance made it effective.'

'My view of the case, Reardon, is that you are simply ill.'

'Certainly I am; but the ailment is desperately complicated. Tell me: do
you think I might possibly get any kind of stated work to do? Should I
be fit for any place in a newspaper office, for instance?'

'I fear not. You are the last man to have anything to do with
journalism.'

'If I appealed to my publishers, could they help me?'

'I don't see how. They would simply say: Write a book and we'll buy it.'

'Yes, there's no help but that.'

'If only you were able to write short stories, Fadge might be useful.'

'But what's the use? I suppose I might get ten guineas, at most, for
such a story. I need a couple of hundred pounds at least. Even if
I could finish a three-volume book, I doubt if they would give me a
hundred again, after the failure of "The Optimist"; no, they wouldn't.'

'But to sit and look forward in this way is absolutely fatal, my
dear fellow. Get to work at your two-volume story. Call it "The Weird
Sisters," or anything better that you can devise; but get it done, so
many pages a day. If I go ahead as I begin to think I shall, I shall
soon be able to assure you good notices in a lot of papers. Your
misfortune has been that you had no influential friends. By-the-bye, how
has The Study been in the habit of treating you?'

'Scrubbily.'

'I'll make an opportunity of talking about your books to Fadge. I think
Fadge and I shall get on pretty well together. Alfred Yule hates the man
fiercely, for some reason or other. By the way, I may as well tell you
that I broke short off with the Yules on purpose.'

'Oh?'

'I had begun to thi