e some of their scant hours of intellectual
recreation on a work of portentous dullness. Therefor the literary
audience has its sense of humour--they amused themselves for a while
by recommending the book to their friends, and the sales crept
steadily up to four thousand, and there stayed with an unmistakable
air of finality. If the book had had any real literary merit its life
would have started at that point, for the weary comments of reviewers
and the strident outcries of publishers tend to obscure rather than
reveal the permanent value of a book. But six months after
publication "The Improbable Marquis" was completely forgotten, save
by the second-hand booksellers, who found themselves embarrassed with
a number of books for which no one seemed anxious to pay six-pence,
in spite of the striking heliotrope binding. The publisher, who was
aware of this circumstance, offered the author five hundred copies at
cost price, and the author bought them, and sent them to public
libraries, without examining the motive for his action too closely.
There were moments when he regarded the success of his book with
suspicion. He would have preferred the praise that had greeted it to
have been less violent and more clearly defined. Of all the
criticisms, the only one that lingered in his mind was the curt
comment, "The author had nothing to say, and he has said it." He
thought it was unfair, but he had remembered it. At the same time, in
examining his own character, he could not find that masterfulness
that seemed to him necessary in a great man. But for the most part he
was content to accept his new honours with a placid satisfaction, and
to smile genially upon a world that was eager to credit him with
qualities that possibly he did not possess. For if his book was no
longer read his fame as an author seemed to be established on a rock.
Society, with a larger S than that which he had hitherto adorned, was
delighted to find after two notable failures that genius could still
be presentable, and the author was rather more than that. He was
rich, he had that air of the distinguished army officer which falls
so easily to those who occupy the pleasant position of sleeping
partner in the City, and he had just the right shade of amused
modesty with which to meet inquiries as to his literary intentions.
In a word, he was an author of whom any country--even France, that
prolific parent of presentable authors--would have been proud. Even
his wi